The Watchman
by dunbarbw
Summary: This is an OC story. He's not the son of a great lord. He won't be the love interest of a highborn lady. He isn't going to be changing any of the big events that have happened. He's just a man trying to make his way in a very dangerous world. If that sounds interesting to you, please, read and review! If not...well, read it and review it anyway!
1. The Dream

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters featured in this story**

"Sword!" Ser Gregor bellowed, his shout going almost unheard above the raucous cheering of the crowd. Ser Loras Tyrell certainly did not hear it. He was too busy drinking in the cheers to notice the Mountain's squire running down the lists, massive greatsword in tow. Indeed, no one paid much attention to Ser Gregor until he took that greatsword and hacked his stallion near in two. It was only when the animal's death cries had ceased, its blood gushing into the dirt, that the crowd quieted. Ser Loras raised his shield at the last moment, the shock of the blow hurtling him from his horse.

Ser Gregor pressed in on Ser Loras, hacking down again and again. It was only when his shield was half to splinters that a voice cried out. "Leave him be!" When the Mountain turned he was met with a sight he did not expect. Standing there was a Gold Cloak, a man of King's Landing's City Watch, spear held at the ready, gritty determination sparkling in his eyes.

As the Mountain marched towards him the Gold Cloak thought about what a fitting name it was. In his armor Ser Gregor seemed to stand eight feet tall. The Gold Cloak thrust his spear out, trying to keep the giant at a distance. It wasn't working. He just kept coming. So the Gold Cloak did his best to parry the blows, dancing this way and that, the Mountain's every stroke glancing off his spear or slicing through the air. The Gold Cloak feinted right, Ser Gregor took the bait, the Gold Cloak saw his opening and swung his spear back around.

When the Mountain brought his hand up to his throat the look on his face was almost surprised, as if he hadn't expected to feel his own blood pouring from the wound. He tried to shout but all that managed to escape was a sickening sucking noise. For a while there wasn't a sound, at least until the Mountain's lifeless corpse fell to the ground. Then the tourney ground exploded with cheers and applause. "I owe you my life, ser." Ser Loras said as he took the Gold Cloak by the hand. "I am no ser." Then Ser Jaime Lannister was next to him as well, flashing his dazzling smile. "Well that is something we'll have to fix don't you think?" As Ser Jaime clapped the Gold Cloak on the back as Ser Loras raised their hands high. The small folk ate it up, cheering like madmen.

As the Gold Cloak gazed around he locked eyes with a woman in the crowd and strode to meet her. As he climbed the stairs to the royal dais he removed his gauntlets and his ring mail. He had no desire for cold metal to separate him and his lady love. As reached the top of the platform Queen Cersei Lannister could no longer contain herself and rushed into his arms. "You were so brave my love." She said after a passionate kiss.

"My love? Is that what you said?" King Robert Baratheon asked, staggering to his feet red faced from drink. "Did I hear you right woman?" Cersei clutched at the Gold Cloak's black woolen surcoat in fear, but he whispered a reassuring word in her ear and pushed her behind him. "Tell me boy, why is it my wife calls you, a man unknown to me, her love?" The King bellowed. "She calls me that because that is what I am your Grace, and I am tired of hiding it." The Gold Cloak stepped toward the King, the stench of wine overpowering him. "It's true. I have loved him from a far, falling more and more in love each time he guarded the throne room." The queen said clutching her hands to her chest.

"Fetch me my hammer!" The King shouted. "I'll kill both of you, you hear me? Both of you!" The Gold Cloak remained calm. Gently he placed his hand on the King's shoulder. "I just felled the Mountain. To me he seemed nothing but a babe. Do you really think you would prove any more of a challenge?" He whispered ever so softly in the King's ear. For a moment he thought the King would strike him or take that dagger on his belt and try and plunge it into his eye. Instead he turned around and marched off, shouting and cursing the whole time.

Cersei through her arms around the Gold Cloak's neck and kissed him again. This time the crowd cheered even louder. "Come away with me my love." He said looking deep into her eyes. "Where? Where could we possibly run?" She said, a look of concern on her face. "Braavos. Pentos. Myr. It doesn't matter so long as you and I are together." She pulled away, stared at the ground. He could see on her face that she was weighing the options. "Yes! Yes a thousand times!" She said finally, burying her beautiful face into his chest. The crowd cheered anew and the Gold Cloak looked around and drank it in the same way Ser Loras had done just a few minutes past.

Then he heard a peculiar noise. "Cruck-cruck-cruck!" The Gold Cloak looked around trying to place the sound. He didn't understand what was happening. He could still see the crowd cheering. He saw Ser Loras wiping away a tear and Ser Jaime clapping vigorously. "Cruck-cruck-cruck!" He felt a cool breeze. At least that's what it seemed at first. But it built in to a freezing wind that only he seemed to feel. "Cruck-cruck-cruck!"

The Gold Cloak turned around and perched there, on the chair that had sat the king, was a raven. He had seen ravens but there was something curious about this one. "Cruck-cruck-cruck!" It shrieked, staring right at him. It was only then that the Gold Cloak realized what was curious about it. "Is something wrong my love?" Cersei whispered into his ear. Her voice sent a shiver up his spine. There was something cold and awful about it. "Nothing darling it's just…that raven there has three eyes."

"Oh love, don't be silly. Ravens don't have three eyes. You must be dreaming." That frigid voice whispered.

"Right. Dreaming…oh. Shit"

"Cruck-cruck-cruck!" That was the last thing he heard before he woke up.


	2. Angstrom Pyke

Angstrom Pyke opened his eyes and rolled them around the room. Gone were the lists and the tourney ground, replaced by the sparsely decorated barracks of the Gold Cloaks. The sounds of merchants selling their wares in the Cobbler's Square below echoed through the window as the orange light of late afternoon pooled on the floor. He closed his again and tried to think of the dream. Ser Gregor dead on the ground, the cheering of the crowd, and Queen Cersei, her most of all. But time and again his mind would return to the three eyed raven, the freezing wind, and that horrible whisper in his ear.

Finally he gave up and swung his legs off the bed. He looked around as he stretched and noticed none of his brothers were in the barracks with him, which he found odd. At this point in the day shifts were changing and the men who had been plodding around in the stifling summer heat all day were collapsing naked on their straw mattresses.

Realizing his dream had left him covered in a cold sweat he walked to the water basin in the corner of the room. He splashed water under his arms, on the back of his neck, and against his face before he stuck the top of his head in and soaked his hair. As the water trickled down his face back into the basin he stared at his reflection. Ang was an incredibly plain looking man. Brown of hair and eye there was nothing discerning about his height or his build. Once Holly had told him he was the most average man in all the Seven Kingdoms. He wasn't quite sure if that was a good thing or not, but she said it in a nice way so he liked to think it was good.

Ang had been born in the Iron Islands as his bastard surname suggested, on Pyke itself in fact. His mother had been a northern girl living on the Stony Shore until the day a young lord of House Harlaw decided to do some reaving. He carried her off and made her his salt wife, something his mother once told him that she didn't really mind. She had hated the Stony Shore and this Harlaw was kind albeit ugly. After a year living on the island of Harlaw the young lord went to Pyke to visit his friend, a young lord of House Botley, and brought his salt wife with him. Ang's mother had told him this young Botley was beautiful albeit an ass, but beautiful all the same, and that one night she had snuck into his bed. It was shortly after this that his mother had become pregnant and the Botley came to the Harlaw and explained what had happened.

Now don't let this particular situation skew your image of the Iron Islands or its people. Ten times out of ten this situation would end in blood. But, as luck would have it, the two were good friends and both cared about the girl, so they decided to wait until Angstrom was born to decide how to handle the situation. Unfortunately this didn't help. His plainness was evident from the moment of his birth, so evident that none could tell who the child belonged too, something his mother would blame him for the rest of her life. Both men agreed one of them was the father, but not wanting to raise the other's child as their own, and being unable to tell who it belonged too, they did the only sensible thing they could. They cast Ang and his mother out of their lives. The Harlaw at least gave her some coin and put her on a ship to Seagard.

His maybe-father probably hadn't thought of this, but the Riverlands wasn't the most hospitable place for a stupid, pretty, poor girl with an Ironborn bastard. It may have been 300 years since Harren the Black ruled the Riverlands with an iron fist, but those wounds ran as deep as the Trident. Once the coin ran out his mother did the only thing stupid, pretty, poor girls could do and became a whore. Even then it wasn't particularly easy, after all she was still dragging around a bastard boy from the Iron Islands. The years passed and they bounced from town to town. Fairmarket, Riverrun, Acorn Hall, Pinkmaiden, and finally they found a steady place in Stony Sept. That had been Ang's favorite place up to that point. The children were nice, as was the brothel they lived in. Lords and knights would stop by and he would stare at them with the wonder only a six year old truly knows. At least he thinks he was six, much like his parentage his age was another thing he was unsure of. He and his mother lived there through the war. King Robert had even hid in their brothel for a time before moving on to avoid Lord Connington's troops.

A couple years after that a man from King's Landing came to Stony Sept. Apparently the Sack of King's Landing had been brutal and had wreaked particular havoc on the city's whores. King Robert had mentioned his mother to the man specifically and he had come to make her an offer. Come to King's Landing to whore and you and your child will be taken care of. You will both live in the lap of luxury. How could she refuse? Now it hadn't worked out that way exactly but Ang couldn't blame the man for that. As he grew older Ang had tried his hand at a number of jobs in the brothel. He had swept, poured wine, served food, the owner of the brothel had even tried him a guardsman once when he was a bit taller. Unfortunately nothing panned out and eventually his mother was no longer young and pretty, so the owner threw them out. They managed to find a place at a brothel in Flea Bottom for a time, but the patrons there weren't as gentle as those who frequented the Street of Silk. Within a month his mother was dead, her throat slashed so violently her head was almost removed.

He was able to survive on the streets in large part thanks to Holly. She had been raised in the same brothel as he had been and by the time his mother had died had become a whore herself. Every moon turn she would give him a silver Stag and he would make that last. This was the one point in his life looking average had been a benefit. No one bothered him, no one threatened him, and he was able to go about the business of surviving. Sometimes it felt like no saw him at all. This bothered Angstrom greatly. There in the brothel on the Street of Silk with his mother and the other whores and their children he felt like he had a family for the first time in his life. He wanted to feel that again. So when he was old enough he joined the Gold Cloaks which is where he found himself now, hunched over a basin of dirty water.

As Ang looked down a bead of water dropped from his hair and hit his reflection right in the middle of his forehead. The ripples gave the appearance of a third eye and the though made him shudder. When he stood up he was hit by a wonderful smell. Fresh baked bread, grilled fish, and maybe some kind of stew. The barracks being empty suddenly made sense. Angstrom rushed back to his bunk, through on his surcoat and ringmail, grabbed his spear, and rushed down the stairs for supper.


	3. Supper

Vaulting down the stairs Angstrom's gut started to rumble. He hadn't eaten anything since last night, a bowl of brown with Nestor when they were on patrol, and the smells wafting through the barracks were intoxicating. He wondered if it was some kind of special occasion. It had to be for the cooks to bring the fancy foods out of the larder. While he was tempted to sprint straight into the Great Hall he saw that the evening's duty roster had been posted and stopped to check his orders. _Angstrom Pyke: Pisswater Bend to Pigrun Alley_. "Oh Lovely. Flea Bottom. Again." He said to no one in particular. Sighing, he turned and headed into the Great Hall.

In truth the Great Hall was not all that great. A man could stride from one end to the other in thirty paces and there were no hearths in the hall, just a single fire pit in the middle of the room. There wasn't even a dais for the officers to sit on. Thankfully this kept the more pompous officers away at the Dragon's Gate barracks, a much larger structure that had been constructed when the Targaryen dragons still dwelt in the massive Dragon Pit. Some years after all the dragons had died the Targaryen's decided it made no sense to house the entirety of the watch in a single place, so they had the Cobbler's Square barracks constructed to house a quarter of the Watch. This way the Gold Cloaks had less ground to cover should a problem arise in the western half of the city.

Tonight the Great Hall was filled to bursting. The four trestle tables, arranged in a square around the roaring fire pit, were packed with his brothers, laughing and drinking. Ang was worried about finding a seat when he heard a familiar voice call out. "Over here Angstrom you twice damned whoreson!" Waving him over was Ser Jacelyn Bywater, the knight's iron hand gesturing Ang to a table. Ser Jacelyn was a tall man with a jaw like an anvil and black hair peppered with grey. The old knight had been the man who had drilled Ang when he was a new recruit, a day he still remembered with a smile.

There he'd been, standing in a line with the other fresh Gold Cloaks as Ser Jacelyn surveyed them. Slowly he'd paced up and down, up and down, until finally he stopped right in front of Ang and gave him a hard look from head to toe. Given how no one ever really noticed him this had given Ang a considerable shock. "You! Boy! What's your name?" Their faces just inches apart. "Ang. Er, Angstrom Ser. Angstrom Pyke." The knight's eyes narrowed at that. "Pyke is it? You some Greyjoy bastard? Is that it!?" Ang looked down at his feet, then back up, trying to keep from slouching. "Er no, ser. My father was a Harlaw. Or, well, maybe a Botley. No one's really sure. It's actually sort of a funny story, you see my mother…" Something smashed him in the jaw so hard that he stumbled. He could taste blood in his mouth. "Funny? You vicious sons of whores don't know the first damn thing about funny. You think this is funny do you!?" Ser Jacelyn shoved his iron fist into Angstrom's face, the replacement for the one he lost during the Siege of Pyke where he'd earned his knighthood. Ser Jacelyn went to strike him again and he flinched.

"Oh seven hells." The knight said before looking to the sky and offering up his arms. "Why Father? What have I done to be given so harsh a judgment? A whole kingdom full of ruthless killers and you see fit to send me the one Ironborn that's a bumbling coward!?"Angstrom spit the blood out of his mouth and straightened his back, trying his best to seem taller than he truly was. "I'm not a coward!" Ser Jacelyn pressed back in on him. "What was that?" The old knight asked. Ang leaned close and into Ser Jacelyn's ear whispered "I said, I'm not a coward." The man stepped back, looked up and down the line, and then whipped his iron hand around at Angstrom's face once more. This time he didn't flinch. "We'll see." But this time there was a smile in Ser Jacelyn's eyes.

As he sat down at the table he exchanged pleasantries with Ronnel, Bryce, and Albie but what truly had his attention was the mass of food in front of him. Venison stew with onions and carrots, a grilled trout stuffed with olives, mushroom soup mixed with cream, fresh bread with raisins baked in, and all the ale a man could ask for. "Where in the seven hells did all this come from?" Ang asked shoveling stew and bread into his mouth. "Well, here's how it is," Albie said leaning in, "the Lord Hand gave us coin to hire fifty new Watchmen right? So that's what we did. Only someone had them ousted just a few days after, used the Hand's own men to keep the peace instead." Albie was a brown haired man a few years older than Ang with a pockmarked face. He took a quaff of ale and continued. "Someone let slip to Bryce what was what, that a whole fortnights worth of wages for fifty men was getting moved from the Red Keep to the Dragon's Gate barracks. Soooooo…well you can figure it out."

Angstrom lowered the bowl he was gulping soup out of and pondered it a moment, then shook his head. "Oh come on Ang, really?" Bryce asked rolling his eyes. He was Ser Jacelyn's age, brown of eye with blond hair cropped close to his scalp. "We nicked it Ang! Albie and me!" Ronnel said nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. The boy was younger than he but taller, with red hair and freckles. "You lot stole from the Watch?" Ang asked incredulously. "No boy. We stole from Slynt." It was the first time Ser Jacelyn had looked up from his mug of ale, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The five men howled with laughter, pounding their mugs on the table.

"Ah yes, our brave Commander Janos Slynt. I'm beginning to fear he doesn't like me." Ang said as their laughter finally died. "The only men Slynt likes, besides himself, are lickspittles, cowards, and our brothers whose wages he collects. Why in seven hells would he like you?" There was venom in Ser Jacelyn's voice Ang rarely heard. The knight took the Watch seriously, as it was meant to be taken, and he hated Slynt with a passion. "I saw where you're patrolling tonight, who you're with. You be careful. Not going to be enough men down in Flea Bottom tonight. Slynt want's the Lords up on the Street of Silk feeling safe. You'll have to deal with all the freeriders and hedge knights here for the Hand's Tourney, and Nestor is Slynt's creature make no mistake."

"I'll be careful, don't worry." And with that Angstrom left his friends, gathered his spear and a helm, and started the walk to Flea Bottom.


	4. Nightly Patrol

Angstrom found Nestor down in Flea Bottom at the man's favorite winesink, slouched against a wall already half in his cups. Nestor, first and foremost, was a drunk and it was plain to all. His skin was saggy and marked with red blotches. His fingernails and whites of his eyes were tinged with yellow. He was a man of some forty years with a pot belly and thinning hair and he smelled of a mixture of piss and drink.

Ser Jacelyn had first warned Angstrom of him three weeks ago before the first of their now nightly patrols in Flea Bottom, but as of yet Ang was unsure what the warning was for. Nestor was Slynt's lackey that much was certain. The first week he had espoused the virtue of Commander Slynt, spoke of how well he took care of men loyal to him and the privileges those men were afforded. The second week he had threatened of Slynt's wrath, said Ang was a fool if he honestly thought that dried up old cunt Ser Jacelyn had any future with the Watch and that if he wanted to keep a gold cloak draped about his shoulder's he'd fall in line with the rest of them.

But this past week Nestor had treated Ang with indifference. Oh sure, the man still pestered about falling in with Slynt, but at this point it was done with a tangible annoyance. When it came down to it Angstrom felt bad for the man. Nestor shouldn't have to brave Flea Bottom in the dead of night, not at his age, not in his condition.

"Oi, Nestor!" Ang said tapping his spear against the leg of the stool Nestor was seated in. Nothing. He tapped the leg again, harder this time. Still nothing. Growing annoyed he grabbed what was left in the man's cup and flung it in his face.

"Seven hells," Nestor half shouted, half choked. He wiped the stinging wine out of his hands with one while his other groped for the black cudgel all Gold Cloaks are issued. He stood up and looked around furiously before his gaze settled on Ang. "Oh. You."

"A pleasure to see you too brother," he said with a smile on his face. "Been waiting long Nestor?"

"Long enough. You owe me a cup of wine Pyke, a good cup."

"Gods man, there's no such thing as a good cup of wine in this pit."

"A cup of wine all the same, one for you as well I think," Nestor said signaling to the hunchbacked old woman behind the bar. "I know you don't like to drink on patrol, but this is my last night with you according to Allar Deem, so indulge me."

"So be it," Ang said pulling four copper pennies from the purse on his belt and handing them to the woman. He wasn't keen on the way Nestor had phrased his invitation and was even less keen at the mention of Allar Deem. Deem was Slynt's right hand man and had a dark reputation even amongst men loyal to the Commander.

"I take it you know our route tonight," Nestor asked before taking a deep drink from the cup.

"Of course. Pisswater Bend, down through Flea Bottom, then up Pigrun Alley," Ang replied sniffing his wine. It smelled sour, and not wanting to retch back up the fine meal he had just eaten, he set it back on the counter.

"Aye, that's the one," Nestor said finishing his own cup and then scooping up the one Ang had set aside. "But we need to make a stop at the Iron Gate. Through the Iron Gate truth told. There's a whore who lives outside the walls I need to speak with."

"As you say." The more Nestor talked the more ill at ease Angstrom felt. Perhaps Ser Jacelyn was right and he did need to be careful around the drunken sot in front of him. Even if that was the case there was nothing he could do.

"Alright then," the man said now good and proper drunk. "Let's be off then."

Ser Jacelyn was certainly right about one thing; there were nowhere near enough Gold Cloaks in Flea Bottom tonight. The Hand's Tourney may have ended yesterday but a good many people had stayed for one last day of revelry, and almost all of that good many were too poor to find entertainment on the Street of Silk so they came here to Flea Bottom. When Ang and Nestor had left the winesink the sun was just barely visible over the Sept of Baelor. By the time it had set completely they had already broken up two drunken fistfights, beaten a hedge knight unconscious for trying to steal an innkeeper's goat, and put down a horse that had broken its leg in a race with a dog. They had needed to do the same with the man riding the horse but Ang felt much worse about having to kill such a beautiful animal.

After another three fistfights, two rapes, a man falling and breaking his neck, and one bowl of brown later, Angstrom and Nestor found themselves at the Iron Gate with the night half gone. Indeed Ang probably wouldn't have forgotten Nestor's desire to venture outside the city walls if the man hadn't kept walking straight when Ang made the turn up Pigrun Alley.

"You forget about that eh bastard," Nestor said as Ang jogged up beside him. The other man was red faced and wheezing. It had been a long night for the both of them.

"I did Nestor. You sure you still want to do this? You don't look well."

"Piss on that. I'm seeing this girl tonight."

Ang didn't know anyone who worked the Iron Gate and Nestor bother introducing him as they walked past. He nodded at the man who let them through a door adjacent to the portcullis. There was little light on this side of the walls and Nestor was walking at a good clip. They took a sharp turn, down some steps, then another and down some more. Ang could smell the water now, heard it lapping against the stone moorings.

"How much further Nestor?"

"It's right up here. Be better if you waited."

Ang stopped and looked around. He didn't like the spot he was in, trapped on a narrow walkway with the sea on one side and a wall too high to scale on the other. He saw a torch a few paces ahead and moved towards it hoping the light might make him feel safe. Further ahead he saw a shadow in the shape of Nestor disappear into a well-lit shack. He stood there for a long time, at least it seemed a long time. He must have dozed off because he was awakened rudely with scream. He craned his head and listened. He heard again down where Nestor had gone and rushed after it.

"Seven fucking hells," Nestor was gasping as Angstrom came up on him. His breeches had fallen down around his ankles and were wet with piss, but it was what he was pointing at that drew Ang's attention. Floating there in the water, gently lapping against the stone, was the body of a dead boy whose surcoat bore the sigil of House Arryn.


	5. The Dead Body

By the time Nestor had composed himself enough to help Angstrom fish the body out of the water a crowd had started to gather. Normally the residents of King's Landing kept to themselves, but the dead bodies they were used to seeing weren't normally well dressed lordlings. They crowded around the Gold Cloaks craning their necks for a better view, as if anyone would want a better view of the poor boy.

The boy, and he was a boy, no older than fourteen, must have been in the water for some time judging by the look of him. He skin was puffy, the color of curdled milk, and the things that lived in the water had been picking at him. There were bits of fleshing missing here and there where the fish had been nibbling. Something, a shark more than likely, had made a ruin of the left side of his face. His nose, bottom lip, and one of his eyes were all missing and there was a lamprey attached firmly to his jaw, just below his mouth.

The white falcon of Arryn was blazoned on his blue surcoat. His boots were fine leather lined with sable, someone had tied one end of a rope round them, a rock around the other end. A sword hung on his right hip, unsheathed Ang noticed. The boy's insides hung out just above that, a long gash across his belly spilling them out. All in all it was a dreadful sight.

"What happened Nestor," Ang asked looking at the still visibly shaken watchman.

"I uh…I finished my business with Bessy and came out for a piss. It sounded funny hitting the water so I looked down. Couldn't make it out at first, poked it with my spear. Thing flipped over and well…look at his face."

"Aye," he answered kneeling down and grabbing the lamprey. It was hard to grasp even with his leather gloves and it had its hooks in deep.

"What're you doing? Saying some prayer to your Drowned God?"

"I don't know any Nestor. I keep the Old Gods, like my mother. Just getting this foul thing off the poor boy," Ang replied as the creature finally relented, revealing something he found curious. "Oi, Nestor. What's that look like to you," he asked pointing where the lamprey's mouth had been.

"Is that," Nestor wondered holding a torch someone had provided closer to the body. "Seven hells, someone stabbed him. But why? They'd already spilt his guts out?"

"Look here," And saig pointing at the stone tied around the boys feet. He grabbed his spear and went to the edge of the water. Lying flat on the stone he stuck it down into the water until it couldn't go any further, the tip poking up through the surface. "Water can't be more than shoulder high. Whoever killed him thought he would be able to sink him. Then when they couldn't, well…"

"No one ever said thieves were smart."

"It wasn't a thief Nestor. What sort of thief kills a man and leaves boots that fine? Or a sword? And why didn't this boy unsheathe it if he was in trouble?"

"Maybe he knew him that did it," Nestor shrugged.

"Let's ask if anyone here has seen him around. If they saw anything."

"What's the point in that," Nestor said shrugging once more. "Send for the Silent Sisters and let's be off. Nothing we can do for him."

"I don't know how you lot at the Dragon's Gate do it, but we actually try and bring killers to justice at Cobbler's Square," Angstrom said matter-of-factly, just a tinge of annoyance in his voice. Nestor mumbled something but went about questioning the people who had crowded around and Ang did the same.

Most of the men and women didn't feel like talking. Those that did expressed sympathy for the boy, but offered nothing useful. He was in the middle of giving a boy instructions on how to find the Sept of Baelor so that he might fetch the Silent Sister when he felt a tug at his cloak. He turned to find a little girl, five or six, with the dirty hair and no shoes.

"Hello sweetling," Ang said kneeling. "Do you know what happened to that boy?"

"No," she answered clutching a filthy rag doll and looking at her feet. "But me and him was friends."

"Your friend? How's that then?"

"He shared some food with me a few days ago. Asked where the good hiding spots was. I shows him and he gave me some more food."

"Did you know his name?"

"No ser. But the man said his name were Rory."

"What man," Ang asked taking the girl by the hand.

"The man with the grey hair. He ain't old ser, but his hair's grey. He been askin about a boy named Rory with a bird on his shirt."

"Do you know where Cobbler's Square is sweetling," he asked. The girl nodded. "Well next time you get hungry you come to the barracks there and ask for Ang or Albie or Bryce. Once of us will see you fed. Can you remember that?"

"Cobbler's Square. Ang or Albie or Bryce."

"Good girl," he said patting her on the head. He rose and went back to the body. This was all very strange to him, trying to find a man who killed a little lord. At least Ang thought he was a little lord. It was a while before the Silent Sisters arrived. He explained to them that the boy's name was Rory and that he was from the Vale, obviously, but that so far that was all they knew but promised he would try to find out where they might send his body. It was when they were loading him into the cart when what had been pinned to the inside of his collar fell to the ground.

"What's that then," Nestor asked Ang as he rose holding the object in his fingers.

"It's a holly leaf," he replied sighing. "We need to go to the Street of Silk."


	6. The Street of Silk

It had been quite some time since Angstrom had been back to this brothel, three years at the least. He had no need to come after joining the Watch. He had his own wages then and no longer relied on the silver Holly would give him. He still saw Holly occasionally when he was on patrol, calling from a window down to the men on the street below. She was his friend and there were times when he longed to talk to her, but she seemed happy so he let her be. Besides, there wasn't much for the two of them to talk about. At least until now anyways.

Holly was one of the more famous whores in the city. Men paid a good price to bed her and she was always very accommodating, or so he heard. Another thing he had heard is that after bedding a man she would give him a holly leaf to treasure, so that they might remember her and come and see her again. Ang had to come see her just on the chance she had known the dead boy.

Of course Nestor was only too happy to make the trip. He boasted loudly of all the whores he had bedded at this particular brothel, not knowing that Ang knew for a fact he could never afford them no matter how much influence Janos Slynt supposedly had. When they entered Ang was taken aback. A number of changes had been made since he was last here. The place was never shabby but now the décor was nothing less than magnificent. He was in the middle of wondering how much Young Rafferty, the man who owned the brothel, and the one who had thrown his mother and him out on the street, had spent on the renovations when a shapely red head approached the two of them.

"Well, well, well…what brings two Gold Cloaks here at so late an hour," she said wrapping her arms around Angstrom's neck. "I'm Ros brave sers. I hope you're here for pleasure instead of business."

"Oh I'm sure we can find time for a little bit of both love," Nestor said pinching her ass. Giggling Ros turned to him, stroking his splotchy face.

"No we can't," Ang said annoyed. "Where's Holly?"

"She's with a client. Can I ask what this is about," the woman said dropping her playful act.

"It's no business of yours. I take it she has the same room," he said, more a statement that a question.

"I said she's with a client," Ros said as Ang brushed past her.

"Don't worry. I'll wait."

He walked up a short flight of stairs, took one left, then a right, down a flight of stairs past his mother's old room, then another right and arrived at Holly's room. He waited for quite some time, doing his best to ignore the sounds that were coming from the other side of the door. Instead he focused on a common room Young Rafferty had constructed down the hall.

Inside he could see girls serving wine, laughing and flirting with the brothels patrons. One patron in particular caught his eye. The man was rather plain to look at. Not ugly nor handsome, short nor tall, much like Angstrom himself. There was nothing striking about him other than his hair. His grey hair. The man was drunk, Ang noticed, or at least he was doing his best to pretend to be. He would have pushed the thought from his mind, deemed it coincidence, but despite a commendable effort it was obvious to Ang that the not-drunk man kept staring at him.

Finally the door in front of him opened and a slender man stepped out, a silver eagle emblazoned on his purple surcoat. Ang bent low at the waist as he was expected to do, the man gave him a curt nod, and then Ang entered the room.

"Whoever you are, I'm off for the night. Unless you want to pay me double what I normally make. If not you can fuck right off," Holly said sitting on a cushioned bench brushing her dark brown hair.

"Do I have to pay you to talk to me," Ang asked. Holly whipped around mouth agape, her blue eyes as big as saucers. She dropped the brush and rose from the bench, her gown was Myrish lace, blue as the sky and so thin you could see through it.

"Angstrom," she shouted rushing towards him and throwing her arms around his neck. Her breath smelled of mint, her hair perfume. "It's so good to see you! What are you doing here?" She sounded so excited to see him that he almost didn't want to reveal the reason for his visit.

"Come, why don't we sit a moment," he said gesturing to the bench. She was still as slender and elegant as she was the last time Ang saw her and he found it hard not to glance at her breasts. "Uh…I…when did Young Rafferty make all the changes to this place?"

"Oh that wasn't Young Rafferty," Holly said. "Young Rafferty died, maybe…a year ago?

"Died? How?"

"Well, we all may have called him Young Rafferty but he was as old as Old Rafferty by that point. The gout had got to him. He slipped down some stairs and broke his neck. But we were lucky because Lord Baelish bought the brothel just a few days after!"

"Oh, I see," Ang smiled softly. "Listen, Holly, I need to ask you some questions. As a Watchman."

"Oh," she said, her smile dying. "Very well."

"I found this on a dead boy," Ang said handing her the holly leaf. "He wasn't very old, fourteen maybe. He was dressed very fine, maybe a lordling? He had the sigil of House Arryn on his surcoat. Did you know him?"

"No…oh no," Holly said clutching her chest. "Poor, poor Rory."

"Rory? Was that his name Holly?"

"Yes, Rory Stone. He was a bastard from the Vale, I can't remember who he said his father was I promise you I can't."

"What was he doing here in King's Landing?"

"He was Lord Arryn's page. Served him wine, changed his sheets, that sort of thing you know? Lord Arryn's old squire, Ser Hugh, he told Rory he was going to take him on to be his own squire. Oh, this is dreadful."

"Ser Hugh…the knight who got himself killed by the Mountain," Ang asked trying to comfort her.

"Aye, he's the one. I dunno who would want to hurt Rory. He was a sweet boy. He was here often the last few weeks. Him and Lothar had become friends." That reminded Ang of something Nestor had said. _Maybe he knew him that did it_?

"Who's Lothar?"

"Lothar Brune," she sniffled. "He's just down the hall there in the common room."

"This Lothar," Ang paused. "He have grey hair?"

"Yes," Holly said wiping tears from her eyes. "How did you know that?"

Angstrom leapt to his feet and threw open the door. He had been made to leave his spear at the entrance of the brothel, house rules you see, but he still had his cudgel. He marched towards the common room shouting for Nestor, fully intending to take this Lothar Brune into his custody. By the time he was in the room Brune had dropped his drunken act and was standing, dagger in hand.

"Can I help you Gold Cloak," the man hissed. Ang looked him over, looked him in his eyes. That dagger was a sight deadlier than his cudgel, but they were of a height and Ang was no coward.

"Your pants," Ang said pointing with his weapon. "They're awful wet."

"I was drunk. Pissed myself."

"And your boots? Lots of mud on them. Been down to Flea Bottom tonight?"

"Maybe. That a crime now?"

"Is when you kill a boy."

"So killing you…that'd be a crime?"

The lords and knights and whores had moved far away from the two men by that point. It's not hard to sense trouble coming. Angstrom Pyke and Lothar Brune hadn't noticed, they were four paces from each other and had yet to look at anything but the other one's eyes. Ang was certain the man across from him was a dyed in the wool killer. His chances weren't good if this came to blows. Regardless, he had a duty.

"Lothar, my friend," a voice came from behind Angstrom. "Is there any particular reason you're antagonizing our friend from the City Watch?"

"Seven hells bastard," Nestor wheezed running up beside him. "You know where the hell we are?"

The other man walked around Ang's right and whispered something into Lothar Brune's ear. The man sheathed his dagger and sat down in his chair. The new man was a small and slender, the hair at his temples had gone grey as had some of the whiskers in his goatee. Ang recognized him almost immediately.

"We beg your pardon Lord Baelish, m'lord," Nestor bumbled.

"We," he replied smirking. "Your companion does not seem so moved my friend." Nestor elbowed Ang in the ribs hard, but Ang acted as if he didn't notice and kept his cudgel firmly in hand.

"Tell me watchman, might I have you name," Lord Baelish asked.

"Angstrom Pyke m'lord."

"That is an interesting name. Might we retire to my solar to speak in private Angstrom? Men brandishing weapons in a brothel…it is bad for business you see."

Ang studied the man for a moment. Lord Baelish seemed unassuming enough.

"Aye m'lord," Ang finally said slipping his cudgel back into his belt. "That would be fine."


	7. Lord Baelish

Angstrom followed Petyr Baelish down a narrow hallway, turning this way and that back towards the front of the brothel. They passed through a curtain into a large room, dimly lit, with luxurious couches and silk curtains billowing. Laughter, pretty voices, and the soft music of harps and pipes were carried in through the windows by a stiff breeze. Lord Baelish gestured to a chair on one side of a large desk piled high with ledgers and scrolls.

"Wine Angstrom? I may call you Angstrom may I?" He asked pouring himself a cup.

"Call me what you wish m'lord, and no, thank you. I'm on duty."

"Strange. I have found that the time spent doing one's duty is often the time when drink is most appropriate, though I admit I admire your dedication. Tell me, is it duty that has brought you here this evening?"

Ang shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was no maester, but he was not a fool. Lord Petyr Baelish was Master of Coin, a powerful man who had the King's ear, and Ang had stumbled into his brothel ready to accuse a man in his service of murder. Ang had to tread carefully.

"Tis so m'lord, I'm sorry to say."

"Might I ask what duty specifically Angstrom?" Lord Baelish said with a smile, taking a sip of his wine.

"Nestor and me, we found a body m'lord, down in the water just past the Iron Gate. A page, Rory Stone, who had served Lord Arryn and was, so I hear, going to squire for Ser Hugh."

"Ah yes, very nasty business what happened with Ser Hugh. Not an accident I think. The Mountain's lance goes where the Mountain wants it to go." He said raising an eyebrow.

"Aye m'lord, so was whispered in Flea Bottom. This boy, he was no accident either."

"A robbery then? I'm sure a page to so great a lord as Jon Arryn had a good amount of coin."

"No m'lord," Ang said shaking his head. "Nothing was taken from the boy. And whoever did it knew him. They were able to get right next to him without the boy drawing his sword. Shoved a dagger up into his mouth."

"Oh? Your fellow watchman said the boy's guts had been spilt?" Lord Baelish said cocking his head to the side.

"He did m'lord, but the way I figure it, the man who did it only did so after he realized he couldn't sink the boy in the water. We found him with a stone tied around his feet."

"I see. So what about this boy brought you to my establishment?"

"We found something on his body," Ang said, wondering if he should confide in this man. "A holly leaf. Holly, the girl who works here, she, uh, she gives one to the men she sees."

"Ah yes, Holly," Baelish said taking another drink from his goblet. "Your friend correct? I spoke often with the previous owner, I tried to purchase Holly's services from him. He often cited you as a reason I shouldn't bother. What do I care if one of my best whores gives some foolish boy a Stag every so often, I told him. Alas, we could not reach an agreement. A terrible accident, what happened to poor Young Rafferty. "But," he said holding out his hands and shrugging his shoulders, "a fortuitous one for me."

Lord Baelish poured himself another cup of wine and this time one for Angstrom. Though he had protested before there was something about Baelish's manner that made him take it this time. He seemed genial enough, all pleasantry and smirks, but there was something Ang found off-putting about him as well. He took a deep drink to steady his nerves.

"So Angstrom, you believe Lothar Brune to be responsible for the crime?"

"Well m'lord, Holly said he and the boy had become friendly and he confessed to me that he had been in Flea Bottom this night. He also eyed me strange the as soon as I was outside of Holly's room."

"You are a very observant man. A much needed quality in a watchman for sure," Baelish said, again smirking and sipping his wine.

"Oh, no m'lord. I'm not I assure you. Just this evening my friends hinted at something that should have been plain for all to see and I couldn't put it together."

"They hinted? With words," he asked, Angstrom nodding. "Words are wind my friend. No man can see the wind, you would agree? You certainly see a great deal else though. How else could you piece together so many little details from a dead boy's body? Enough details to lead you all the way here?"

"Well m'lord," Ang said pondering that a moment. "I suppose that when you go your whole life without anyone really noticing anything about you, you get a lot of time to practice how to notice things about them."

"That my friend," Lord Baelish said chuckling, "is a lesson I learned quite some time ago." He raised his glass and Ang felt obligated to raise his as well. They sat there for a time sipping their wine, not saying anything, Baelish surveying Angstrom over the rim of his cup.

"Tell me Angstrom, have you ever wanted…more?" Lord Baelish finally said, breaking the silence.

"More, m'lord?" Ang asked apprehensively.

"More gold? A higher station? All men want more Angstrom."

"Even you m'lord? You want even more than you already have?" Ang asked with a half-smile.

"Oh yes," Lord Baelish said. His voice remained the same, his smirk fixed firmly in place, but Ang saw something very dark in the eyes of the man across from him and it sent a chill up his spine. "I want very much more than this."

"But come, I was asking of you," Baelish said his genial mood seemingly returned. "Why is it you save up all the coin you make as a watchman?"

"You know that m'ord?" Ang asked.

"Of course. Lord Varys is not the only one in King's Landing with eyes in his employ and what goes on inside the City Watch is of great interest to me. I do pay you after all."

"Well," Ang said, again pondering a question from Lord Baelish. "I'm not sure m'lord. I've never found much use for whores. I have drink aplenty at the barracks. I suppose I don't have any real reason to be saving my coin."

"And what if I could give you a reason?" Lord Baelish asked. "Do you know your letters Angstrom?"

"Aye, m'lord. There was a septa in Stony Sept when I was a boy. She'd come to the whorehouse and try and teach the girls and their children some."

"Wonderful," he said rising and crossing over to Ang's side of the desk. "That's even more than I could have hoped for. I confess, Lothar Brune was in Flea Bottom this night, looking for that boy. But he was doing so on my orders."

"What's that m'lord," Ang said rising and taking a step back.

"Don't worry, we meant him no harm. I am aiding the Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, in an investigation into the death of Lord Arryn. Lord Stark thinks he was murdered and we had hoped to find the boy and speak to him but…well," Lord Baelish said shrugging once more.

"What would you have me do m'lord?"

"Lord Stark has few friends here in the capitol. When one finds himself without friends to inform and counsel him one must find other avenues to gather information. Spies, for instance."

"You, uh, you want me to be a spy m'lord? Spy on who?"

"As I said before I have men in the City Watch who report to me, but I have yet to place one inside Janos Slynt's inner circle. They're afraid of this Allar Deem fellow. But you don't strike me as a coward Angstrom. You did, after all, barge into the brothel of a Small Council member and accuse his man-at-arms of murder."

"I did not know it was your brothel m'lord," Ang said shaking his head.

"Still…would that have really stopped you?" Ang shook his head again. Lord Baelish stepped towards Ang and draped an arm across his shoulders, leaning in and whispering so that only the two could hear.

"Go to Slynt, confess that you know who stole that shipment of coin, the wages meant to hire men for the Hand's Tourney. Give him a name, whose name it matters not, he already suspects it was someone in the Watch. Tell him you're unhappy in Cobbler's Square, tell him you wish to serve him better. Do what he asks of you, read his letters if he gets any, take note of who he speaks with and where he goes. Every few days Lothar Brune will find you and you'll tell him all you've seen."

"That's it m'lord?" Ang asked suspiciously.

"That's it? Oh Angstrom, this is an undertaking of great importance to the realm. One that both Lord Stark and I much appreciate, and believe me my friend, I know how to take care of the men who do me great favors."

Angstrom thought of his dream from earlier. A dream it was, and a fanciful one at that, but there was something about that three-eyed raven and the cold wind rising. He took it as a sign of what he must do here and now.

"Very well m'lord. I shall do as you ask. For the good of the realm."

"Good, I'm glad we could work out this little arrangement," Lord Baelish cooed in his ear leading him back to the brothel's entrance. "Take care not to mention any of tonight's little adventures to anyone."

"M'lord? I've already given the boy's body to the Silent Sisters."

"Wonderful thing about the Silent Sisters, the fact that they're silent. They'll say nothing about the boy and I'll quietly arrange to have him returned to the Vale. But so long as you say nothing Lord Stark's enemies won't know he never found the boy in time to speak with him. Besides, we wouldn't want to put sweet Holly in danger would we?"

"No, we wouldn't," Ang agreed. "What about Nestor m'lord? He knows about this same as me."

"Don't worry about your friend Angstrom. He'll stay here tonight, enjoy my hospitality. I'll work out a similar arrangement with him. You return to your barracks now and rest, and remember what we spoke of."

Ang did just that, winding his way down cobbled streets back to the barracks, climbing the narrow stairs and flopping down in his bunk as the soft snores of his brothers echoed about the room. He laid there in the dark for a long time, wondering just what exactly he had agreed to. Something that would serve the realm. Something that would give him more than he had. When he finally fell asleep he dreamed of the frozen wind, and snow, and the howling of wolves. And always the three-eyed raven shrieking in his ear.

Nobody ever saw Nestor again.


	8. Breakfast

Three days after his talk with Lord Baelish, Angstrom sat in the Great Hall of the Cobbler's Square barracks breaking his fast. Ser Jacelyn had made sure the wages stolen from Slynt had been put to good use and even after three lavish feasts there was just enough coin left for one lavish breakfast. Fresh baked black bread, eggs cooked with onions and Dornish peppers, fried bacon, a roasted haunch of aurochs meat, and a fine wine from the Arbor.

He would have preferred waiting a few more days before going to the Dragon Gate barracks and offering himself up to Janos Slynt, but the choice was made for him. As he sat there watching Ronnel do his best to put out the fire the spicy Dornish peppers had set in his mouth, Albie tapped him on the shoulder and pointed towards the Great Hall's entrance. Standing there was Lothar Brune.

"Said he's here to see you, Ang. Who is he?"

"Uh, no one. Just some freerider I caught catching a peek at the whores up on the Street of Silk the other night. Let the tosser off if he promised to come to me if he heard anything about this thief I've been after. I'll be back in a bit."

"Well, well…I here we're to work together," Brune smirked as Ang drew close. He wore a brown leather jerkin over a white shirt and brown trousers with knee high black boots. A sword hung from one hip and a dagger from the other, his brown cloak fastened with a bear paw pin wrought out of iron. Ang could just make out the edges of a chainmail shirt beneath the jerkin.

"Aye, we are. But I haven't gone to Slynt yet so why don't you fuck right off eh?"

"You're a real pisser huh boy," Brune said, still smirking.

"Anytime you feel like finding out," Ang said nodding at Brune's sword.

"Heh, well…you don't lack for courage, so I suppose you ain't half bad."

"Look…what're you here for Brune? I told you I haven't been to see Slynt, though I figure Lord Baelish already knows that."

"Oh, he knows. Why I'm here. He trusts you, but this sort of business needs to be done in a timely manner. So, he's sent me here to give you proper motivation."

"Motivation?" This time it was Ang's turn to smirk, stepping closer to Brune so their noses were just inches apart. "You think…what? You show up here, threaten me, and I run along and do what you want like some dog you kicked? I'd of thought a man like you would be better at reading people."

"Nah, I read you just fine boy. You're either too brave or too stupid to respond to shit like that. So…I had one of Lord Baelish's men in the Watch tell Slynt you was the one stole all that gold."

"You, uh, wait…you did what," Ang asked, his stomach dropping into his balls.

"Oh you heard me," Brune said, this time with a full on smile. "I was you? I'd start thinking of a good story to tell."

With that Lothar Brune turned and walked out of the Great Hall, leaving Angstrom to turn and walk back to table he was sharing with his friends. He saw that Bryce and Ser Jacelyn had joined Albie and Ronnel. Ang sat, poured himself a goblet of wine, and drained the whole thing in three gulps. He felt the wine burn in his guts, but it did little to drown the butterflies already fluttering about his insides. He was running through his options in his head, only half listening as his friends prattled on about the beauty of a highborn lady or how a particular wine merchant charged too much for his watered down wares.

"Angstrom? You alright you whoreson," Ser Jacelyn asked. Ang looked up from his wine and stared at the old knight. It was often difficult to tell what Ser Jacelyn was feeling. He kept his emotions as tightly guarded as a Septa's asshole. But every now and then, if you looked in his eyes, you could tell what was going on inside him. Ang looked in those eyes and saw genuine concern.

"Nothing, ser. Swear. Just, uh, still shook up about Nestor is all."

"Aye, curious thing that. Tell me again, when did you see him last?"

"Just around sunrise ser. We'd finished our patrol, we were tired, decided we'd call it early." Ser Jacelyn nodded his approval. Nestor's disappearance had caused something of a stir amongst the Gold Cloaks. He hadn't been well liked exactly, but he had been well known, and Ang had noticed sideways glances from some of his brothers. Ser Jacelyn had made sure Ang had his story straight in case any of the boys from the Dragon Gate barracks came calling.

Ser Jacelyn's nod had given him confidence. He thought back to his talk with Lord Baelish. He was doing what was good for the realm. What bad could come to a man trying to do something like that? After a while he had forgotten about the trouble Brune had caused him, at least until the doors of the Great Hall burst open and Allar Deem stormed in. A hush fell over the men as Deem strode right towards Angstrom.

"You. Bastard. Get up." Deem was flanked by four Gold Cloaks on either side, Slynt's men all of them.

"What's this about," Albie protested.

"He ain't going nowheres," Ronnel said rising to his feet.

"Sit down you ginger shit," Allar Deem hissed through his teeth. "This isn't any of your business."

"It is my business Deem," Ser Jacelyn said standing. "I am captain of the Mud Gate, an officer, your superior. Where is Pyke headed?"

"To the Dragon Gate…ser," Deem sneered. "To meet with your superior, Commander Slynt."

Bryce and Albie and Ronnel all started to shout and Ser Jacelyn moved around the table to get right into Allar Deem's face. Other men in the Great Hall had taken notice by this point. The Gold Cloaks of Cobbler's Square were a close knit group, one that rallied behind Ser Jacelyn Bywater, and seeing their leader moved to anger had set them on edge. Ang could see many were thumbing their cudgels, some already had them in hand, and a few men had even rushed to the walls to grab their spears.

"I'll go Ser Jacelyn, no need for all this," Ang said. He felt the need to protect all of his brother watchmen, even those who Slynt had bought and paid for. He stood and walked behind Allar Deem.

"Angstrom…you don't have to do this," Ser Jacelyn said.

"No ser, I do."

With that Angstrom followed Allar Deem and the other Gold Cloaks out of the Great Hall, through Cobbler's Square, and down the twisting streets of King's Landing headed towards Janos Slynt and the Dragon Gate.


	9. In the Belly of the Dragonpit

As they marched him through the back alleys of Flea Bottom Angstrom wondered what might await him at the Dragon Gate. A beating if he was lucky, a painful death if he wasn't. He figured his odds were fair either way, but if he could talk to Janos Slynt the odds of his walking away from this probably got a whole lot better. He was trying to think of how to get into a room with Slynt but the man walking next to him was proving too much of a distraction.

"Oh Angstrom…you really fucking stepped in it this time boy," Well said. Well, that was his name strange as it sounded, was the only man Deem had brought to the barracks that Ang recognized. He was small with stringy blonde hair and chin that had never really develop. They had actually known each for some time. Both had lived in the same whorehouse in Stony Sept.

"I always knew you was stupid, bastard, but Gods, stealing? From Commander Slynt of all people? What the hell was you thinkin?"

"I didn't steal anything Well."

"Bugger that, I knows you did it. You was always so stupid Ang, even when we was kids."

"Speaking of stupid," Ang said, tired of hearing Well's voice, "you boys know why Well's called Well and not something like Will?"

"Oi, you shut it bastard," Well hissed smacking Ang in the knee, sending him sprawling into the mud.

"No, you shut it Well," one of the Gold Cloaks said helping Ang to his feet. "That is somethin I've always wondered. Why's he called Well, bastard?"

"Well here was born in a whorehouse, same one I lived in for a time when I was small, in Stony Sept. His mother was a whore, same as mine, but I don't think whore is the right word for Well's mum."

"I'm warnin you Ang, you best shut yer mouth or I'm gonna shut it for ya," Well threatened.

"Shutup Well, yeh wee shit. Go on bastard, why was whore a bad word for his mum."

"See, Well's mum was stupid. I mean, most whores are stupid, you lads know that. But Wells mum? She was a special kind of stupid, and a drunk besides. If a man caught her in the right mood, or if she was drunk enough, they could have a poke at her and she wouldn't even charge. So I'd say slattern would be a better word for Well's mom."

"What's a slattern," one of the Gold Cloak asked?

"It's whore who don't get paid," another said laughing.

"But that don't tell us why Well's called Well," said the third.

"Oh right. Apparently, and I can't say for sure cause all this happened before me and my mum were living there, but apparently the night Well was born his mother got good and proper drunk. She even drank while she was trying to squirt him out. When it was finally was over and the midwife was holding the shriveled, squalling mess that grew into our friend here, she asked his mum what she wanted to name her baby boy. Only thing she managed to get out before vomiting all over herself and passing out was '_Well,'_."

Ang heard Well curse under his breath as the three Gold Cloaks burst into laughter. One of them even had to stop to piss or risk doing it in his breeches. They marched on for sometime in silence, all smirking save for the seething Well.

"So, nobody ever thought to ask her if she wanted to name him something else," one of the men asked him.

"No. Like I said, his mother was stupid, even for a whore. Everyone just assumed the dumb bitch did it o…" Ang felt something strike his temple hard and he went tumbling into darkness.

When he finally opened his eyes again he saw nothing but blackness. His head itched all over and learned why when he reached up to give it a scratch. Someone had pulled a burlap sack over his face and, more disturbing to Ang, placed a shackle around his neck. He touched the cold steel with his fingers, fumbling around for a way to get it off. He found it was connected to a chain and pulled on it hard to no avail. He crawled in the direction of the chain and felt a rough stone pillar. Taking the chain in hand he pulled again, struggling to get his feet underneath him, and with some effort pulled himself to his feet.

He instantly regretted the decision. As soon as he righted himself the world started to spin, made all the more dizzying by the total darkness. It wasn't long before he vomited all over the inside of the sack and collapsed back to the floor. Lying there, head feeling like it had been split open, he tried to listen for something that might give him a clue as to where he was. Besides the howling of wind and his own ragged breathing he heard nothing. After what seemed like hours in the darkness he finally heard footsteps. He tried to figure how many pairs but he was still so disoriented.

"Get him up," a voice he recognized as Allar Deem's said. Two pairs of hands grasped him by either arm and hauled him up quickly while someone jerked the chain back hard until his back was against the stone column. As someone ripped the sack off his Ang's head he vomited again.

"Seven hells," he heard someone besides Deem exclaim. Ang glanced around. Two torches had been placed on scones near the column he was chained too. Beyond the torchlight the darkness remained impenetrable except for a great whole in the ceiling where stars wheeled overheard. Ang finally realized where he was.

"The Dragonpit," he said hoarsely, half a question.

"Aye, that's right bastard. Well cracked you good, you've been out the whole day. Probably should have shut up about his mother." Allar Deem was a tall, thin man with shoulder length black hair and eyes that were sunk deep into his skull. Indeed, if it weren't for the occasional glitter of torchlight dancing across them Ang could scarce have said Deem had eyes at all. Besides the two men at his side and the third he knew was holding his chain Ang saw two more men further back, and next to Deem a sack of what Ang assumed was nasty business.

"You know what's going to happen here, eh bastard?"

"You'll politely ask me some questions, I'll tell you the truth, and you'll send me on my way."

"Aye," Deem said with a cruel smile, his white teeth flashing in the light. "Something like that." He smashed Ang in the face with an armored fist. He followed it with a punch to Ang's ribs before bringing his left hand across to hit the lemon sized welt on his temple. Ang's body went to vomit again but there was nothing left in his guts, so he hung there by his neck grunting and heaving.

"So, here's how this is going to go. You're going to tell me what I want to know. Do it quick enough and I won't make your dying too slow. The wages you stole, where'd you put them?"

"I didn't…I didn't steal anything," Ang managed to choke out. Deem shook his head then unleashed a flurry of blows to Ang's midsection, cracking a rib. He backed away, strolling around the edges of the torchlight, the other Gold Cloaks shouting their encouragement. Deem returned, grabbed Ang by the hair, and belted him in the nose breaking it.

"Come on now lad," Deem cooed in a voice of mocking tenderness. "I don't enjoy doing this anymore than you enjoy going through it. What'd you do with the coin you stole?"

"I didn't steal anything…you gangly cunt," Ang spit.

"Cunt is it," Deem replied. He walked around Ang, who suddenly felt a pull on the chain. Someone kept pulling until the air was being choked from his lungs. He clutched at the shackle around his neck, trying to gain some respite, but he found none. As his eyes began to roll into the back of his the chain finally went slack and Ang fell to the ground.

"Where is it," Deem shouted down at him.

"I didn't," was all Ang managed to get out before taking the heel of Deem's boot to his forehead.

"Get him back up," Deem commanded. The Gold Cloaks did as they were bid but the pain had made Ang's legs weak. They fetched a rope, wrapped it around the column, and hanged him there by his wrists.

"Let's say I believe you, bastard. Why'd one of our men say you did it?"

"Because…I know…who did," Ang croaked out with great difficulty.

"Let's have it then. Who did it."

"I'll only…I'll only tell Commander Slynt."

"You think you're in any position to be making demands," Deem said with chuckle.

"What're you…gonna do? Hit me," Ang replied with a hoarse chuckle of his own.

"You see that bag, bastard? You don't want to know what's in that bag. That bag? That's bad shit. So why don't you just tell me what you know?"

"Take that bag…and shove it up your fucking ass Deem." The tall man sneered and walked back to rummage through the bag. Ang couldn't make out what he was doing, his left eye had swollen shut and the vision in his right eye was blurry from all the blows to the head. He saw something long unfurl from Deem's fist as one of the Gold Cloaks took a dagger and cut Ang's shirt away. He watched Deem get a feel for it, and then he heard a crack and chill went up his spine.

The second time he heard a crack a thin red line appeared on his chest. The third time, the line turned into a gash as a ribbon of flesh was torn away. The fourth, a gash on his stomach. Six more times he heard a crack and when it was done his torso was a mess of blood and tattered flesh. He cried out each time, but he managed to fight back tears.

"Tell me what you know," Deem said throwing down the whip.

"Bring…Commander Slynt." He didn't though. No instead Deem fetched a pair of pincers out of his bag, walked up to Angstrom, stuck the pincers in, grabbed firm on one of the teeth in the back of his mouth, and wrenched it out. Ang screamed, loudly. Deem asked him something but he couldn't make it out so he shook his head. Deem reached in and pulled out another tooth.

"Tell me what you know, bastard, or I swear I'll turn you round and whip you til you're dead."

"I want…to talk…to Slynt," Ang managed to shout, blood and spittle flying in Deem's face. He motioned for the men to turn Ang around and went back to grab the whip when a shout went up.

"That's enough, Allar! The bastard wants to speak with me. After all that I'd like to see what he has to say."

Ang had a hard time making out who it was at first, but as the figure stepped further into the light there was no doubt who had spoken up. Janos Slynt was a bald man with a stubbly grey beard, short and portly, built like a keg.

"Commander," Ang choked. "I don't think…we've ever had the pleasure."

"We haven't, though I know you by reputation," Slynt replied. "A good watchman, brave, dutiful. But you keep poor company as well. Ser Jacelyn Bywater…" He let the words hang there, the contempt in his voice clear.

"Commander…please, water." Slynt looked over his shoulder and made a slight gesture with his hand. Another Gold Cloak rushed up and poured water into Angstrom's mouth. No wine had ever tasted so sweet as the metallic mix of blood and water rushing down Ang's throat. The man went to pull the skin away but Ang followed with his head, slurping at it hungrily.

"There, you've had your water. Now tell me what you wanted to tell me."

"I know who stole the wages Commander."

"As I heard you say earlier, who was it?"

"It was Nestor my lord. He told me the other night when we were on patrol," Ang said, doing his best to stare Slynt in the eyes. The commander said nothing for a long time, searching Ang's face for a hint of falsity.

"Deem, see if he's telling the truth." Without a moment's hesitation Deem drew his dagger, took Angstrom by the wrist, and hacked off the middle finger of his left hand. He shrieked as he watched the digit fall to the bloody sand.

"Who was it that stole from the Watch," Slynt asked.

"Nestor! Twas Nestor Commander I swear!" Janos Slynt surveyed him again, pacing slowly around him.

"Aye, so we thought. He was never a brave man, but he was drunk and stupid. I figured he might try something of the sort. But we found him this morning in a pigsty near the Mud Gate, throat slit, body half eaten by the pigs. Do you know who killed him? Did he have accomplices?"

Ang knew then what he would have to do then. Even as his body was racked with pain, his mind reeling, he knew that there was only one way he was going to come out of this alive and whole. At least as whole as he already was.

"If I tell you Commander, you must protect me. Bywater, the dried up old shit…he'll kill me. He acts as if we in the Cobbler's Square barracks are all equal, but he plays favorites. Three years in the Watch and I'm still doing patrols in Flea fucking Bottom while pretty boys, Bywaters boys, are patrolling the Streets of Steel and Silk, or have easy assignments at one of the city's gates. I'll tell you Commander, but please, take me into your service after. Teach me how to be a man as strong and as true as you are."

Slynt whispered in Allar Deem's ear. Deem whispered something back. Ang hoped that playing to Slynt's vanity and his hatred towards Ser Jacelyn would pay off.

"Perhaps," Slynt said at last. "If you tell us true."

"Nestor did have help Commander, you were so wise to see it. Two men from Cobbler's Square."

"Who?"

"Albie and Ronnel," Ang said with a voice calmer than he had expected given how heavy his heart was. He knew what was going to come next, Slynt and Deem had to be sure of course. So he wasn't surpised when Deem took another one of his fingers, the fourth on his right hand this time. Knowing didn't make it any less painful or his screams any quieter.

"It was them Commander Slynt, by the old gods, the new, and the Drowned God of my father I swear it."

"I believe you, Angstrom," Slynt said. "I'll fetch you a healer to bind you wounds. These men, Albie and Ronnel, do they know you? Trust you?"

Ang nodded.

"Good. On the morrow you will them bring them to me, under what pretense I leave up to you. Serve me well in this and you will have my protection, and my favor. You made a very wise decision Angstrom."

Later, when a healer was pouring boiling wine into the wounds on his chest and searing the stumps of his fingers with a hot poker he wasn't so sure. All that hurt, but not so much as knowing he'd just killed his friends.


	10. The Dancing Master

Sometime after his night in the Dragonpit, Angstrom found himself in an entirely different, much more enjoyable situation. Gone were the nightly patrols in that shithole Flea Bottom, gone was the stale bread and watery ale that passed for a meal at the Cobbler's Square barracks, and gone were the oozing wounds he had earned at the hands of Allar Deem. The wounds had scarred over, every meal at the Dragon Gate barracks was a banquet, and this was Angstrom's third straight day on duty at one of the Red Keep's postern gates.

Today, as with the previous two, he spent his duty with Barden. He was broad shouldered and well-muscled, like some sculptor had cast him out of bronze. He was a likeable fellow, even if he didn't talk much. Well, except for today. Today Barden couldn't keep his trap shut and Ang couldn't blame him. What had happened between Lord Eddard Stark and Ser Jaime Lannister on the Street of Silk was all the city could talk about.

"Who'd you think have won Ang," Barden asked leaning lazily against the red bricks of the keep. "Supposin of course that Lannister man hadn't stabbed the Hand in the leg?"

"Ser Jaime of course. No man in all the Seven Kingdoms can wield a sword like he can, except maybe Ser Barristan, but he's old now."

"What 'bout the Hound? Think he could take the Kingslayer?"

"Clegane's a big man, and skilled enough in his own right. Ser Jaime's quicker though. Only the gods know for sure."

"Speakin' a gods, you're a Greyjoy bastard aren't you," Barden asked passing Ang a skin of wine.

"I'm from the Iron Islands if that's what you mean," he said taking a drink. Drinking on duty had been one of the things Ang had had to get used too. He had a part to play after all.

"It true what they say? That your priests drown you and bring you back to honor your god?"

"I don't know Barden, didn't grow up there."

"Oh yeah, forgot. You pray to trees and rocks right?"

"Aye, something like that," Ang couldn't help but smile. Barden was a good man, but a bit touched in the head.

"Hmm," Barden said nodding. "So you really don't think Lord Stark stood a chance?"

"I really don't."

"Alright," Barden shrugged. "I'm going for a piss."

Ang watched the big man wander off, spear in hand. A breeze flittered through his cloak giving him goose pimples. He thought of the dreams he'd been having for what felt like forever. They were getting even more vivid, the raven was always there, always shrieking. But now, every night he dreamt, there was a wolf. All white it was, with red eyes. He was looking down at it from some place high and when he looked to either side of him there were black shadows in the shape of men.

Lost in thought Ang only noticed the man walking towards the gate when he was already on top of him. He through his spear out to block his path and gave the man the once over. He was small, brown of skin, with curly hair and a stubbly goatee. On either hip he wore thin wooden swords. He moved gracefully, gliding across the stone on the balls of his feet like a cat might.

"Halt. What business do you have here," Ang asked the little man.

"You are not knowing me," he asked in reply.

"I am not."

"Well then, allow me an introduction. I have the honor of being Syrio Forel, who was First Sword of Braavos."

"I have the honor of being Angstrom Pyke, of the City Watch."

"Tell me, Angstrom Pyke, why is it that you are not knowing me?"

"I do not know m'lord. Tis only my third day here at the Red Keep, and these last two it was the evening I was on duty. You haven't said why you're here."

"Ah, yes," Syrio said squinting at him. "I am normally arriving early in the morning, but yesterday, yesterday was a great holiday in Braavos. I am one of the few Braavosi here in this city so I spent the night down at the docks with men from my city. The celebration lasted until the early hours of this morning, and now I am being late."

"And you're here because…"

"I am instructing Lord Stark's daughter in the Water Dance. I may be going now?"

"Uh, no, m'lord you may not," Ang said. "Last night there was a fist fight between some of the Hand's men and some of the Queen's men. The Hand has confined all to quarters and ordered us Gold Cloaks to keep the peace until their tempers have calmed. So I must escort you."

"Well…escort me," the Braavosi said. Ang craned his neck and saw Barden walking coming back around the corner. He gave a shout, pointed at the man, then up at the Tower of the Hand. Barden waved back in acknowledgement.

"This way m'lord," he said gesturing the Braavosi through the gate. They walked across the Red Keeps Outer Yard, eerily quiet without men drilling in it. They went around the Small Hall, passed through the portcullis into the Middle Bailey, bid good day to the Gold Cloaks on guard at the entrance to the Tower of the Hand and the began the arduous climb to the top.

"What does a dancing teacher need with training swords," Ang finally asked halfway up, no longer able to contain his curiosity.

"You are never hearing of the Water Dance?" Ang shook his head. "It is a way of fighting, of swordsmanship. Real swordsmanship, not this hacking and slashing of a butcher you Westerosi are fond of. One must be quick, graceful. Maybe you should be staying for the lesson? It is a good way of fighting for a man like you."

"What do you mean," Ang asked confused.

"The Westerosi style, you all clutch your weapons so tight, using all you power to strike down and hack through armor and flesh. A Water Dancer uses his sword for slashing and piercing, holding it firmly, but also gently. A good style for a man missing fingers."

"How'd you know that?" Syrio simply smiled and they continued the climb in silence. Upon reaching the top of the stairs they went right, left, down some stairs, then right again arriving at a large door guarded by two Stark men-at-arms. Ang nodded and turned to leave when the Braavosi grabbed him by the cloak.

"Come in for just a moment, if you are willing?" Ang shrugged and followed the man inside. The door opened to a large solar, red brick as were all the rooms in the keep, with a balcony overlooking the Blackwater.

"You will be waiting here yes?"

"Where are you going," Angstrom asked?

"Even the First Sword of Braavos must piss," Syrio replied with a smirk. Ang gave a smirk in return and nodded his head. As the man retreated to the privy Ang walked out onto the balcony. If you looked straight out you could see where the river met the sea, a pretty sight. Far prettier than if you turned your head to the right where Maegor's Holdfast loomed menacingly. Hearing footsteps Angstrom spun around only to see a young girl of eleven or twelve skid to a halt in the middle of the solar.

"Where's Syrio," she asked puzzled.

"The privy, m'lady," he said.

"Who're you?"

"Angstrom Pyke m'lady."

"You're a bastard? I have brother who's a bastard. Jon Snow, he's in the Night's Watch."

"Well…how does one bastard watchman compare to the other," Ang asked.

"I dunno. I've never seen you fight," the little lady replied.

"Oh well if fighting is how we're compared then I won't measure up," he said stepping down from the balcony back into the solar. "I never had a master-at-arms to teach me how to wield a sword."

"That makes me wonder," she said circling him like a cat. "Why don't you Gold Cloaks have swords?"

"Well," he said pondering, "we aren't knights. We aren't even soldiers really."

"But if King's Landing's attacked you have to defend it!"

"Aye, we do. Most times though we're charged with keeping the peace. Our cudgels serve well enough for that."

"But you do know how to use a sword don't you?"

"I suppose it's much like using a spear. You stick them with the pointy end yeah?"

"Something like that," she said laughing. "But a sword's more dangerous than a spear."

"I don't know about all that," Ang said looking at his spear. "If you know how to use one I think it can be just as good."

"And we are to be believing that you are one of the men who knows how to use one yes," Syrio Forel asked throwing one of the wooden swords to the girl.

"Sure. We Gold Cloaks, we good ones at least, spend so much time with our spears that after a while it doesn't seem like something you're holding. It's almost like another part of your body if that makes sense," Ang said blushing.

"That makes perfect sense! Syrio says that for a Water Dancer a sword isn't just something you hold, but an extension of your arm." This time it was the Braavosi who circled him, wooden sword in hand, surveying him. Once, twice, three times.

"Arya child, I am thinking our new friend Angstrom is providing us with a lesson in practicality," he finally said.

"What do you mean," she asked.

"Many days I have been coming here and we have trained with nothing but swords. But the man trying to kill you will not always hold a sword. Sometimes he will have an axe and shield. Other times he will hold a spear. Angstrom should be staying to help in you lessons."

"Oh, uh, I can't…I'm sorry," Ang sputtered. "I'm still on duty and Commander Slynt may be cross with me," he said backing towards the door.

"No! Don't go," Arya shouted grabbing at his right wrist. Her pull combined with Ang's retreat ripped the gauntlet off exposing the scarred stump where his fourth finger used to be. Dropping his spear he scrambled to put the piece of armor back on. It was still a queer feeling for him, to have people see he was missing his fingers. There were times while he was on duty that a driver would crack a whip to make his horses move faster, every time he heard it he would flinch. When he wasn't dreaming of the three eyed raven and the wolf he dreamt of that night in the Dragonpit.

"I'm sorry," the girl said, her gaze fixed on Ang's stump.

"It's…it's uh, it's fine m'lady. Nothing to apologize for."

"Please stay Angstrom. My father can excuse you, promise." He looked her in her big eyes, a child's eyes. He looked at Syrio Forel, his eyes like steel with a hint of kindness hidden in the corners.

"Well…I suppose I could stay for a little bit," he finally answered.

"Wonderful," Syrio shouted. "Take up your spear Angstrom, it is time for us to dance!"


	11. The One True God

Angstrom thrust his spear out once, twice, three times. Each attempted strike was effortlessly, almost lazily, parried by the Braavosi. Frustrated Ang slashed at the man's knees. He vaulted over the blow gracefully, already anticipating the next attack. Ang spun right, trying to bring the wooden butt of his spear flush against his opponents head. He rolled beneath the ash shaft, sprang to his feat taking Ang's cloak firmly in hand, pulled hard, and put the point of his wooden sword to Ang's throat.

"Dead," Syrio Forel said releasing him. "And dead and dead and dead four times over! Arya and I were believing you to be a man who can use a spear. So far…I am not seeing this." He smiled at the girl and backed away from Ang.

"Men here in Westeros do not fight like that," Ang replied flummoxed and slightly embarrassed. Before they had begun he had suggested removing his cloak and using it to wrap the point of his spear. He had no interest in harming a man in Lord Stark's service. But Syrio had laughed and insisted it would not be a problem. Ang was beginning to see why.

"Wrong! I am a man, I am here in Westeros, and I am fighting like this," the Braavosi said raising his sword once again.

"Fine." Exhaling, Ang raised his hand and steeled himself for the next go around. To this point Syrio had let Ang be the aggressor, showing Arya how to use the length of the spear against its bearer. But he had a sneaking suspicion that this time Syrio would be on the attack.

He was right. Ang managed to get one thrust off, one parried easily by the Braavosi, before the other man was on top of him. He unleashed a flurry of blows, Ang just managing to block each one. He ducked under a slash to his head and then checked an attempt by Syrio to sweep his legs out from under him. Ang threw his shoulder into the smaller man as he twirled to his feet then slashed with his spear, backing Syrio up further and earning himself a brief respite. The two men circled each other, Syrio staring into Angstrom's eyes, Angstrom staring at something else.

"Look at his eyes Angstrom," Arya shouted. "The eyes always tell the truth."

"You know what's truer than that m'lady," Ang replied glancing briefly at Syrio's eyes. The Braavosi looked left and struck the spear with his sword. Ang took a step forward, acting as if he had fallen for the feint. Syrio spun right and raised his sword to strike…only to find himself falling on his ass after having his feet swept out from under him.

"Dead," Ang said pointing his spear at Syrio's chest.

"That is more what I was expecting," Syrio smiled as Ang reached down to help him up.

"How'd you do that," Arya asked, a look of mild disbelief on her face.

"The hips m'lady. That's what's truer than the eyes. A man can look one way and move another, same can't be said for his hips."

"But Syrio said…"

"Arya child, I am knowing of what you are thinking. Because my eyes told the truth then does not mean that they are always telling the truth. This is good advice. Advice I would not expect to be coming from a common watchman. Come, again!"

Angstrom and Syrio went on like that for around an hour with the Braavosi killing the Gold Cloak far more often than Ang would have liked, but he still managed to get the best of some of the exchanges. After exhausting all the ways he knew to get in close or disarm a spearman Syrio said it was time for Arya to have a go at Ang.

"Oh no, not a chance," he said shaking his head. "You're one thing Braavosi, a little lady is another. I'll not risk hurting the Hand's daughter."

"How will she be learning if she is not practicing?"

"Besides, you aren't going to hurt me," the girl said. "I'm going to hurt you."

"While I'd like to see you try m'lady, I simply won't risk it."

"My name is Arya, not _m'lady_," she said mocking him. "But seeing how I am a lady I can always command you to help me practice. You'd have to listen then."

"You wouldn't," Ang said frowning.

"You don't think so," Arya said crossing her arms and cocking an eyebrow. He knew there was going to be no talking her out of it.

"Very well," he said with a heavy sigh. "But we won't be using a real spear."

"That's fine! I know the perfect thing we can use!" Ang leaned his spear against the wall as the girl sprinted from the solar. She returned with a tall rack, just a hand's length or two shorter than his spear, a cloak draped on one of its arms. She ripped the cloak off and threw it to the floor and then went about breaking the arms off the stand.

"Here, you break the base off. I'm not strong enough," she said handing it to him.

"I'm to break the Hand's furniture now as well?"

"Don't worry it's just my sister's. Stop sounding so gloomy! This is going to be fun!"

Ang would never admit it to anyone, but the next hour was quite fun. At first he was apprehensive. No matter what Arya might have said Ang just couldn't imagine Lord Stark being pleased with the man who broke his daughters hand or gave her a nasty cut. But he quickly realized that he didn't need to be apprehensive with the girl. Quite the opposite in fact, after two hard shots to an elbow and one to his gut he concluded that if he went any easier on her he was going to be a purple and green mess come supper.

Thing's went much better against the little lady than they had against Syrio, but she still killed him more than a handful of times, getting progressively better as the hour went on. On their last exchange she imitated the Braavosi perfectly. Arya rolled under Ang's strike and hopped up cat quick. Before he had a chance to turn she struck him hard in the back leg, dropping him to one knee. One hard yank of his cloak and Ang was on his back, sword at his throat.

"Dead," she said smiling.

"I'm no expert at this Arya, so take this with a grain of salt, "Ang said smiling back. "But you seem to have the makings of an excellent swordsman."

"I agree," a new voice said. Ang glanced over and standing in the doorway was Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Hand of the King and Warden of the North. He was supported by a cane, his leg heavily bandaged, a remnant of his fight with Ser Jaime. Arya ran over and hugged him, Syrio Forel bowed low, and Ang did his best to scramble to his knees.

"M'lord Hand," he said solemnly.

"What're you doing here watchman?"

"I, uh…I was escorting Arya's, I mean _Lady_ Arya's dancing master and…"

"I asked him to be staying Lord Stark," Syrio said rescuing him. "To be showing Arya how to fight a man with a spear."

"Escorted," Lord Stark asked taking a step in the solar. "So you were on duty?"

"I was m'lord."

"I commanded him to stay," Arya blurted, moving between her father and the other two men. "I said if he didn't you'd make sure he was patrolling Flea Bottom til next summer." Lord Stark's smirk hinted at him knowing it was a lie, but he nodded and stood a little straighter.

"Syrio," he said, "next time my daughter issues commands send a runner to me so that I can approve them." Syrio nodded. "And you, watchman, what's your name?"

"Angstrom Pyke, m'lord."

"Pyke," the Lord said with just the slightest hint of disdain. "If Syrio has further use in instructing my daughter make sure it happens when you're off duty. If your absence has caused any problems tell Commander Slynt to come see me and I'll make sure you aren't punished."

"I shall m'lord," Ang nodded. "Thank you."

"Come along now Arya, I need to speak to you and your sister," Lord Stark said before he turned and left. She exchanged a low bow with Syrio before tossing him the wooden sword, giving Ang a small wave before running after her father. Ang grabbed his spear and gestured for Syrio to follow. They descended the Tower of the Hand and made the short trip back to the postern gate in silence, though Ang could feel Syrio's eyes on him the whole way. Barden was gone, their shift long finished. He nodded at the new Gold Cloak walked through the gate with the Braavosi.

"Well that was certainly the most interesting dancing lesson I've ever had."

"Indeed," Syrio said. "It was a good lesson, one that is making me hungry. Would you care to join me for supper? There is a shop in Flea Bottom that is having fried sardines and olive bread like you would be finding in Braavos."

"I suppose I could. Lead on friend."

Again they walked in silence, down the Street of Looms, Aegon's High Hill and the Red Keep shrinking as they approached Flea Bottom. As they wound their way through the twisted alleys of the slum they passed one that was especially narrow, darkened by the sloping roofs of the top heavy tenements. It sent a shiver up Angstrom's spine and set his guts to water. That was the alley where Slynt's men fell upon Albie and Ronnel.

"_Tell them I'm badly hurt, that I can't walk and need their help as quick as they can get here," he had told the little orphan girl from beyond the Iron Gate. She had had trouble recognizing him with his face as swollen as it was. "It's Ang, from the other night. You remember yeah? I told you to come to Cobbler's Square if you were hungry."_

"_Ang or Albie or Bryce," she had said apprehensively._

"_Aye, that's right little one. You go there now and you tell Albie or Ronnel what I told you. Tell them they need to come." She had nodded and run off and Ang had stumbled to wait in that alley. They had come fast, just like he knew they would. Albie had cursed. Ronnel had cradled Ang's head. Both were so concerned that neither noticed Slynt's men slinking down the alley until it was too late._

When they arrived at the shop the sat at a table and Syrio shouted something in his native tongue. Ang too shouted, for wine, as large a skin as they had. When it arrived he gulped it down like it was water. So far as he could tell being drunk was a wonderful way to get rid of bad memories.

"You are being thirsty my friend," Syrio said raising an eyebrow and tilting his head to the side. "Are you a heavy drinker?"

"A recent development," Ang replied wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Syrio clucked and shook his head in disapproval.

"You have seen the face of God then, yes? I can see it in your eyes."

"Which god is that Braavosi?"

"The One True God, Angstrom. Death. This was your first time killing a man?"

"Has anyone ever told you that whole 'knowing things about people that they haven't shared,' makes you a bit of a cunt," Ang asked gulping down more wine.

"He was being a friend of yours then?"

"Aye," he said after a long time. "He was a friend. A man put a dagger in my hand and gave me a choice. My friend died, or we both died. Ronnel was just a boy. Bigger than me sure, but a boy all the same. He'd never even been with a girl, was saving up his coin so he could go to a brothel on the Street of Silk." Ang took another long pull from the wineskin.

"He was staring up at me, his face all smashed to pieces, and was begging me not to do it. Not with words, the bastards had cut his tongue out to muffle the screaming, but I could see in his eyes. _Don't do it Ang, please_. I took that dagger and I opened his throat. What sort of man does that make me Braavosi?"

"It is making you a man who does not want to die. This is something I can be understanding." Their food arrived and Syrio dug in hungrily, Ang had lost his appetite his head beginning to reel from the wine.

"I betrayed my friends so I could live. I'm a coward."

"You Westerosi," Syrio said with a mouth full of sardine, "you all talk of honor and bravery. It is very easy to talk about such things when the God of Death is far away. It is much harder to be doing those things when he is standing in a room with you."

"Lord Stark wouldn't have done it, Ser Jaime Lannister neither," Ang slurred.

"Lord Stark is a remarkable man. The Kingslayer too. Men like them are being one in ten thousand. Why are you being so hard on yourself, I am wondering?"

"Because I'm not a coward, not really. I should have refused, should have died. I'm better than that." Syrio snatched the wineskin from Ang's hands cat quick and slid his chair closer. He stared Ang in the eye hard.

"I am agreeing with this. You are special."

"Bugger that," Ang scoffed. "There's nothing special about me."

"When I was being First Sword of Braavos I served as bodyguard to the Sea Lord. Many times he was meeting with men great and small, sailors from Braavos, magisters from Pentos or Myr, even powerful merchants from far away Qarth. During this time I was learning how to recognize remarkable men. You, Angstrom Pyke, you are a remarkable man, even if you are not seeing it yet."

Syrio Forel leaned clapped him on the arm, moved his chair back to its original position and continued eating. Ang sat there in stupefied silence not knowing what to make of what he just heard. He corked the wineskin and tossed it away before helping himself to the bread and fish. After a while the food was gone and the Braavosi rose. He tossed a silver stag to the shopkeep and was almost out the door when he suddenly stopped and turned on his heel.

"You will be coming to see me at my home. I live in the blue building near Fishmonger's Square where the Muddy Way meets the Hook. You are knowing this?"

"I do, but why," Ang asked confused.

"I will be teaching you how to use a sword."

"I, uh…Syrio I don't have the coin for that."

"None will be needed. Remarkable men should be knowing how to use a sword." Syrio turned on his heel once more and strode out the door.


	12. Got stuck by a pig

Ten days later Angstrom sat in Fishmonger's Square breaking his fast on hard cheese and fresh caught fish, slathered in butter and lemon juice and grilled over an open flame. Every so often he'd pause to spit out the red slime of the Sourleaf he was chewing. Ang had never been one for the stuff but he knew it could give a man a boost of energy and right now that was something he desperately needed. He had been at it with Syrio all night, the fourth such night in a row. When they had begun these lessons they had been in the early afternoon, just after Syrio had finished his lesson with Arya Stark. But the last few days Slynt had wanted his best men around him, the company of which Ang had somehow managed to find himself in.

He wasn't entirely sure how it had happened, Slynt was ready to kill him not long ago after all, but he imagined serving up Ronnel and Albie had been a start. It had gone far beyond that though. Ang had done all Slynt had asked of him, just like Lord Baelish had told him too, things Ang was ashamed of doing. It had started bad. Allar Deem had woken him in the night and said they were going to an armorer on the Street of Steel. The man was personally protected by Commander Slynt, no one would steal from him or harass his workers. But the armorer hadn't paid for the protection in a fortnight so they were going to collect. Deem had ripped the man's fingernails out with hot pincers while Ang held him down. It had escalated quickly after that. Ang had personally killed three men, one woman, broken a weaver's hands, helped kidnap and beat the young son of Tyroshi merchant, then set fire to one of the merchants ships. All of this he did without question, keeping silent after the deeds had been done, always telling himself this was for the good of the realm.

"_You do your duty and you don't complain. A good man, the man who does that," _Slynt had told him. _"It is such a shame you wasted so long under Bywater's yoke. Janos Slynt is not a man to waste someone of your talents."_

Doing his duty had earned him easy assignments, shorter hours, and even a place at Commander Slynts own table at the barracks. Ang watched what Slynt did, who he spoke too, read his letters, and every now and then he would meet with Lothar Brune to report it all. In truth it was incredibly boring. Slynt did next to nothing, spoke to only his trusted guardsman and whores, and his letters were nothing but notes from the people he was stealing from. The man seemed to have some ambition, he often spoke of leaving something behind for his sons, but he didn't seem to have a grasp on what to do with that ambition besides hoard gold.

And then five days ago a man in a crimson cloak fastened with a lion pin wrought out of gold had come to speak to Commander Slynt. Ang had never seen him before and thought it odd anyone other than the Queen's own men would be brave enough to stride about the city in Lannister colors. The Lannisters had been little loved since they sacked the capitol, helping King Robert win his crown, and everyone knew Lord Tywin and his army were razing the Riverlands. Ang hadn't been in the room with Slynt and the Lannister man, but Slynt had emerged from his solar red-faced and furious, asking who the man was to dare question the Gold Cloaks loyalty to the crown. Since then Ang had done nothing but guard the door to Slynt's quarters while he and Allar Deem spoke with hushed voices within.

So he and Syrio had been conducting his lessons overnight in the Braavosi's cramped room. Ang would arrive, move the furniture to the edges of the room, catch the wooden sword tossed to him by Syrio and they would go about the business of swordplay. It had been slow going at first, their first two days together occupied entirely by Syrio teaching Ang the proper way to grip the sword, how to stand, how to move his feet.

"_You Westerosi are being fond of your plate armor, so the traditional Water Dance is not being good for you. In Braavos we fight in a straight line, striking and countering until we can make the kill. This will not be working for you here though. Your sword will not cut through the steel, so you must be moving always. Circling, looking for the right angle to attack," _Syrio had told him on the second day. _"You must be striking where the armor is not. Slashing at open joints, or thrusting if you are getting the opportunity!"_

After Ang had learned the basics things had progressed quickly. He was no Syrio, he doubted he was much better than Arya Stark, but he was a lot better than he had been before. Certainly better than most men in the Watch and, Syrio assured him, better than most men in a household guard.

"_Do not be thinking this makes you a dangerous man," _Syrio was quick to caution. _"You must be working at this, even when you are not with me." _Ang had promised he would and had made it a priority to do so. When he wasn't on duty or with Syrio he was practicing on straw dummies in the barracks bailey, whacking at them with a wooden stick. Of course he didn't need a stick anymore.

"Seven hells, what's that on your hip? Is that a sword," Lothar Brune asked sallying up to Ang and grabbing a seat at the stool across from him. "Are you lot allowed to have swords?"

"Course we are, so long as we can pay for them," Ang replied. "I happened to have quite a bit of coin saved up."

"Queer looking thing," Brune said frowning. Ang drew the sword from its scabbard. The blade was three and a half feet of fresh forged steel just a little over an inch wide. The hilt had a crosspiece with sweeping rings extending from it to protect his hand, and a knuckle bow as well. Syrio had designed the blade himself.

"_You will be taking this and all the gold you have Tobho Mott on the Street of Steel," _Syrio had said handing him the rolled parchment. The Braavosi had retrieved the sword from the armorer himself and presented it to Ang just a few hours ago. The length, the weight, the balance, all of it perfect.

"You know how to use that," Brune asked.

"I'm learning," Ang said sheathing the blade. "I saw you yesterday, what do you want." He spit the Sourleaf out of his mouth and rinsed it with fresh water. It was only then that he noticed Brune was armed and armored, even more so than usual, with the steel gauntlets and boots.

"S'not what I want, s'what he wants. Lord Baelish wants to see you."

"Lord Baelish? Why?"

"You've met him bastard. You think he shares his reasons with the likes of me?"

"No, but you aren't stupid Brune, appearances aside. What do you think he wants?" Brune sighed and edged his stool closer to Ang. He looked around before leaning in, speaking low so no one else could hear.

"King's returned from his hunt."

"And," Ang asked puzzled.

"And he's hurt. Got stuck by a pig. Won't last very long."

"How'd you know that?"

"Was in the room with Lord Baelish when the runner came. He wants you to come to the brothel soon as you can."

Ang nodded, rose, and made for the brothel where he had first met Lord Baelish. His mind was moving even faster than his feet. Why did Baelish want to see him? Was this something to do with Slynt? Or the Lannister who had been at the barracks? That whole incident struck Ang as even stranger than before. How big a coincidence was it that a man had come to question the Watch's loyalty just days before the king lay dying? Arriving at the brothel he pushed past Ros, ignoring her protests to leave his weapons at the door, and wound his way through the corridors until arriving at Lord Baelish's solar.

"Angstrom, my friend, it is good to see you again," Baelish said without looking up from his desk. He was scribbling furiously onto a parchment. Ang could make out the words _Harrenhal _and _all lands and incomes_ scratched onto the paper. "You bought yourself a sword. Tell me, how go your dancing lessons? As good as Arya Stark's?"

"M'lord? How did you…"

"As a man in my employ I would have thought you'd have learned to stop asking how I know the things I know," Lord Baelish finally looked up and smiled at Ang. "The lessons then, going well?"

"Aye m'lord, they are."

"Good. I'm glad to see you're making something of yourself," he nodded and then went back to his parchment. Ang stood there for a while in silence, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to another.

"M'lord," he finally said, "what's this all about?"

"King Robert is going to die Angstrom, sometime today, very soon more likely than not. As is often the case when kings die and leave nothing but children for heirs the matter of succession can be…oh, let us just say interesting and leave it at that."

"As you say m'lord." Baelish scratched out a few more lines, signed his name, then rolled up the parchment and fixed it with his seal.

"You are to take this scroll and deliver it directly to Commander Slynt," he told Ang rising and handing over the parchment. "Angstrom I can't even begin to tell you how useful you've been. I had always thought of Slynt as an up-jumped thug, but you getting in his good graces helped me learn that we was even less than that. While I would have offered Slynt far less than what's offered in that letter I am, after all, nothing but a humble servant of the realm."

"What are you offering him m'lord? And on whose behalf?"

"Best not to ask such things my friend. Just know that you have done a great service for me and for the realm, and that I, and more importantly Lord Stark, are very grateful." Lord Baelish clasped Ang's hand and patted him on the back before returning to his seat to begin writing another letter. Taking that as his cue Ang hurried out and made for the Dragon Gate.

When he arrived the barracks were already in an uproar. Word of King Robert's condition had spread through the city like Wildfire. Gold Cloaks were rushing this way and that and when Ang burst into Slynt's solar Ang saw he was surrounded by no fewer than fifteen men.

"Commander," Ang shouted, pushing past his brothers, "a message. From Lord Petyr Baelish." For all his time as commander Slynt was still a poor reader, normally electing to have someone else read messages for him. But he knew this one was important and meant to be secret, so he read it himself, slowly mouthing the words silently. When he had finished reading Slynt smiled to himself.

"Allar," he barked, "muster forty of our best men. I want them in throne room now." Deem nodded and exited the room. "Javeth," he said to another Gold Cloak, "see that our men guarding the entrances and exits to the Red Keep are reinforced. I want twice as many men there now." This man too nodded and left the room. "Pyke," he said turning to Angstrom, "gather my personal guard, the men who been on duty here the last few days. We leave for the Red Keep in a half hours time."

Ang rushed out of the room now, shouting for the men he had come to know as Slynt's inner circle minus Allar Deem and Javeth. Slynt had just ordered some one hundred and fifty Gold Cloaks to the castle if Ang's numbers were right. He had no clue what was going on but it couldn't have been anything good. Just before Deem left with his forty men Ang saw Slynt pull him aside and whisper something to him. Orders no doubt, though what order Ang could only guess. Twenty minutes later Slynt and the eight men making up his guard left the barracks, Angstrom amongst him.

Halfway up Aegon's High Hill a gust of wind caught them flush, ruffling gold cloaks and black surcoats. Ang thought the wind was much too cold for this time of year.


	13. The King is Dead, Long Live the King

"We stand behind you Lord Stark," Slynt said as Lords Varys, Baelish and Stark arrived at the door to the throne room. Angstrom saw the man nod at Slynt as the heavy doors were swung open and the company entered.

"All hail His Grace, Joffrey of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, first of his name. King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," the herald called out as they approached.

Allar Deem and his men lined the walls, some fifty Gold Cloaks in all were in the room counting Slynt and his party. At the base of the throne stood the knights of the Kingsguard, helms on save for Ser Barristan Selmy. Behind them sat the queen flanked by a handful of Lannister guardsman and Sandor Clegane, the Hound, fully armed and armored. Above them all picking at the Iron Throne sat King Joffrey.

"I command the council to make all necessary arrangements for my coronation," the new king said. "I wish to be crowned within the fortnight. Today I shall accept oaths of fealty from my loyal councilors." Every man there could sense the tension in the room, see the icy glares Queen Cersei and Lord Stark exchanged.

"Ser Barristan…I believe no man here could ever question your honor," Lord Stark said handing the old knight a rolled up parchment.

"King Robert's seal…unbroken,"Ser Barristan said. "Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm. To rule as reagent until the heir come of age."

"May I see that letter Ser Barristan," the queen said coolly. "Protector of the Realm? Is this meant to be your shield Lord Stark? A piece of paper?" She ripped the paper into quarters and let it fall to the floor. Ang thought back to what Lord Baelish had said about matters of succession.

"Those were the King's words," Ser Barristan protested.

"We have a new King now," the queen replied. "Lord Eddard when we last spoke you offered me some council. Allow me to return the courtesy. Bend the knee my lord. Bend the knee and swear loyalty to my son and we will allow you to live out your days in the grey waste you call home."

"Your son has no claim to the throne," Lord Stark said. Ang was confused. How could the king's own son have no claim to the throne?

"Liar," King Joffrey shouted from on high.

"You condemn yourself with your own mouth Lord Stark," his mother said. "Ser Barristan, seize this traitor." The knight moved towards Lord Stark only for his northern guardsman to come between them, hands on their swords. Ang knew it would come to bloodshed soon.

"Ser Barristan is a good man, a loyal man. Do him no harm," Lord Stark said to his men.

"Do you think he stands alone," the queen asked as the Hound drew his sword.

"Kill them! Kill all of them I command it," the king yelled, Lannister men drawing their blades as well.

"Commander," Lord Stark said turning to Slynt. "Take the queen and her children into custody. Escort them back to the royal apartments and keep them there, under guard."

"Men of the Watch," Slynt barked, leveling their spears at the Lannisters.

"I want no bloodshed," Lord Stark said imploring the queen. "Tell your men to lay down your swords. No one needs to die." Ang saw the queen look at Slynt, who gave a slight nod before looking to Allar Deem, who returned it with a nod of his own.

"Now," the commander shouted. Ang felt hot, sticky blood spray against face as a spear burst through the chest of the northman standing next to him. He saw another two northerners die before they could draw their swords and watched as the Hound strode down and cleaved another from shoulder to breastplate. One had managed to get his blade free and slashed a Gold Cloak across the face before turning on Angstrom.

"Winterfell," the man shouted stepping towards him. Instinctively Ang thrust his spear out, its steel head punching through the northerners boiled leather armor. For a moment the man lay there in agony, clutching the hole Ang had punched in his belly. But only for a moment, another Gold Cloak thrust a spear through the man's throat finishing him.

Wide eyed Ang stared around. The bodies of Lord Stark's guards littered the floor, their blood turning the red stone crimson as it pooled around them. Lord Baelish was standing behind Lord Stark, a dagger in his hand, smiling and whispering something into his ear. It didn't make any sense. Lord Baelish and Lord Stark were friends. They had been trying to find Lord Arryn's killer. Baelish had said they were working for the good of the realm. Staring at the blood on his spear And wondered if that what was truly happening.

"Clegane, Ser Meryn," Ang heard the queen said. "Go fetch the Stark girls, unharmed. Commander Slynt if your men would be so kind as to assist them."

"What of Lord Stark's household Your Grace?"

"Do with them what you will."

"Pyke," Slynt shouted breaking Ang's trance. "Take twenty men and go to the Tower of the Hand to assist the queen's men."

He nodded and signaled for some men to follow him out of the throne room. Halfway across the Outer Yard Ang slowed, the Gold Cloaks with him rushing past. He moved like a man half dead, his steps becoming laborious, his spear feeling heavy in his hand. His helm was hot and stifling, he threw it across the yard and looked up, praying to the Old Gods for a breeze. They must not have listening. He stared at the sun for a while, still in disbelief. It was only after a while that he became aware of where it was in the sky, of what time it had to be.

"Syrio," Ang whispered to himself. He would be with Arya now, one of her dancing lessons. He thought of what the queen had said in the throne room. He knew Arya would be safe. She was a great lord's daughter, no one would harm her. But Syrio? He was just some Braavosi. If a Lannister or Gold Cloak found him? Ang pushed the thought from his mind and started running across the yard.

Passing under the portcullis he saw that the Middle Bailey was awash in blood. He saw a dead Lannister and two dead Gold Cloaks, but of the myriad bodies most were men and women loyal to Lord Stark. A few of them had been loading a wagon when men with spears and swords had fallen upon them. He stepped over the bodies and made for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. The sound of battle joined rang throughout the tower. The clash of steel on steel and the screams of dying men.

"Bastard," he heard a man shout from one corridor.

"Winterfell! Winterfell and Stark," came from another.

He heard men beg for mercy, cry for their mothers, call on the gods old and new alike for aid, for just a little while longer. Ang ignored all of it, focusing solely on the climb. He was so focused he didn't notice the man chasing after him until he was already on his ass. Ang tumbled down the stairs a ways, skidding to a halt on a flat landing that laid before an entrance into the Hand's personal apartments.

"Bastard! Traitorous gold cloaked shit!" Ang scrambled for his spear as the man vaulted down the steps after him, finding it just in time to block a vicious two handed cut that snapped near in two. The northerner raised his sword to strike again, a strike that would surely break the spear and lodge the sword in Ang's skull. Remembering a move Syrio had used the first time they had ever danced together Ang rolled his hips, swinging his legs hard at the other mans, knocking him off balance. The northern fell hard back onto the stairs, struggling to regain his footing, but he didn't have enough time.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Ang whispered to him. The man shook violently as he passed, finally snapping the spear lodged in his chest in two. Ang tossed the broken butt aside, drew his sword, and continued the climb. He was close, just a few more stairs. He said another prayer to the old gods, and the Drowned God too just for good measure. He turned at the top of the stairs and came skidding into the solar.

"Syrio," he shouted. "Syrio! Where are you!?" He surveyed the room. Four Lannister guards lay on the floor, unconscious, as did Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard. Ang heard a groan and turned to see another Lannister struggling to his feet. Ang crossed over to him in two long strides and opened his throat.

"It is good you are wetting the blade so soon," a voice said from the corner. Ang turned to see Syrio sitting with his back to the wall, clutching his stomach.

"Syrio," he said rushing over. "What happened?" The Braavosi simply smiled and shrugged. Ang took his hand and lifted up the man's shirt. There was a nasty wound there. "Where's Arya Stark?"

"Why do you want to be knowing this? So that it is you who is giving her to the queen?"

"No! I'm here to help her. And you, you old fool."

"They came for here," Syrio said waving his hand about the room. "The guards were being easy to dispatch, but your white knight. All I had was a wooden sword and he was not without some skill."

"You, uh, you did all of this with a wooden sword?"

"Just so," he said with a smile.

"Can you walk," Ang asked.

"Yes, but where are we going? The castle is being filled with Lannisters and your gold cloaked brothers."

"I don't know, but I'll not leave you here to die. We'll figure something out. Now up with you." Syrio draped an arm around Ang's neck and together they struggled to their feet. On the way out of the solar they passed by Ser Meryn who was beginning to wake.

"Fuck you Westerosi. And your fucking plate," he said delivering a vicious kick to the back of the knight's head. Both he and Ang laughed as they made their way out of the room and down the stairs. It was slow going with Syrio hurt like he was and while the main stair was the quickest way down, they could still here unfriendly voices echoing from below. Syrio pointed this way and that, leading them to a less travelled stairway which they descended quietly. When the two men reached the bottom they went to cross a narrow bridge leading to the topmost level of the Red Keep's Small Hall. Halfway across Ang ran into a familiar face.

"Oi, Ang," Barden shouted in greeting. "Can you believe all this? Lord Stark! A traitor! Seven hells, I can't believe it." The big man stopped a few feet from them, only just then noticing the heavily bleeding Braavosi. "Who's this then Ang?"

"A prisoner Barden," Ang said smiling. "He's hurt, taking him to see the Grand Maester."

"A prisoner," he said confused. "He one of Lord Stark's men?"

"Not sure, just some man I found. Better safe than sorry though. Don't want Slynt being cross with me." Barden looked from Ang, to Syrio, then to Ang once more.

"Ang," the man said leaning in and whispering so that Syrio might not here. "Slynt says we aren't to take prisoners."

"Shit Barden," Ang said sighing. "I'm really sorry about this mate."

"Sorry about…" Ang shoved his sword through the bottom of the man's mouth and up through the top of his skull before he could finish his sentence. He pulled out the sword and watched as Barden's body crumpled to the ground. Ang leaned Syrio against the wall and stripped the body of its mail, cloak, and helm.

"We will be moving slower if I must wear that," Syrio said weakly.

"Aye, but we're even less likely to leave the castle with you looking how you do now." Ang helped him put on the golden mail and fasten the cloak about his shoulder, and then they continued on their way. The emerged into an Outer Yard that was far quieter than it had been an hour ago. Gold Cloaks still lined the walls, but they seemed unconcerned with what was happening below.

Ang dragged Syrio to the postern gate that led to Shadowblack Lane. Something caught his eye as they passed the stables. He turned his head to see a small figure disappear through one of the stable's back doors, hooded and cloaked, light glinting off a steel sword concealed underneath. He looked to where the figure had come and saw a dead boy laying on the ground, a small wound in his gut.

"Arya Stark," Ang said to Syrio after they had slid out of the gate and were halfway down Aegon's High Hill.

"What about her," Syrio replied wearily.

"She have a sword?"

"Yes. A small thing for a small girl. She is calling it Needle. Why?"

"I think she may have got out."

"What!? We must be finding her! We must…" the Braavosi finally collapsed from exhaustion.

"Don't worry…I will." Ang threw the little man over his shoulder and made for the docks.


	14. All Men Must Die

Angstrom's first order of business was getting Syrio someplace safe. He ducked inside an alley and stripped the Braavosi of the mail, cloak and helm that had helped them slip out of the Red Keep unnoticed. One Gold Cloak carrying another who was half dead would seem suspicious. A Gold Cloak carrying some drunken sot would scarce be noticed. Ang hoisted Syrio over his shoulder once more and drew his cudgel to give more credence to the mummer's farce. He wasn't sure if the standard patrols were still in place given what was happening, but Ang hoped they were as he used his knowledge of them to avoid contact with any other Gold Cloaks.

Even though he managed to dodge any discerning Gold Cloaks, despite the shopkeeps and peasants not paying him any mind, there was a stone in Ang's gut because he knew what he would have to do. Ang hoped to get Syrio to his countrymen down by the water. The docks ran from the King's Gate all the way down to the Blackwater Rush and Ang was sure there would be a Braavosi merchant willing to help Syrio. But to get there he must pass through the Mud Gate, the gate commanded by Ser Jacelyn Bywater.

Angstrom hadn't seen the Ser Jacelyn since the morning he'd gone off with Allar Deem for that horrible night in the Dragonpit, but he had heard from his brother's that Bywater had been in a dark mood since then. A mood made even darker after Ronnel and Albie had disappeared, something Ser Jacelyn held Ang directly responsible for, or so he'd been told. Ideally Ang would have stashed Syrio someplace safe and gone to scout the Mud Gate to ensure Bywater wasn't there. But the old Braavosi was fading fast, he needed a soft bed to rest in and a healer to tend his wounds or he would be dead in a few hours.

So Ang stopped and set Syrio down yet again. He shed his chainmail, his surcoat, his gauntlets and boots. When he went to throw off his gold cloak he stopped. By throwing it away he was going back to the streets. To the hunger and the fear and the not knowing if he would be alive to see the sun rise the next day. Then he felt the steel on his hip. No. He wouldn't be afraid. He was no longer some street urchin. He had seen too much, done too much, learned too much. He was Angstrom Pyke. He didn't need some fucking cloak to give him comfort, especially after all that had happened this day.

"Piss on this," Ang hissed throwing the gold cloak in the mud. He then knelt and spread mud and shit, it was hard to tell what was what in all honesty, on his shirt and his breeches and his face. He scooped up Syrio and marched towards the Mud Gate. By now the city had heard all about the goings-on at the castle. He did his best not to listen to what the smallfolk were saying, but rumors assaulted him from all sides.

"The boy king's already dead," he heard one man said.

"Liar, its them Starks that are dead," a woman answered.

"Wasn't Stark who killed the boy king, was the dragon lords come again," someone else said.

It went on like that all the way to the Mud Gate. It was slow going. The area near the water was always crowded and not only was Ang fighting through the throng of people, but he was doing it with another man on his back. Small man mind you, but a man all the same. However when Ang arrived at the gate it seemed like luck was on his side. In an attempt to flee the war men and women from the Riverlands were trying to fight their way into the capitol like trout fighting their way upstream to spawn. Overseeing it all from atop a wooden platform was Ser Jacelyn, staring down and shouting orders. Ang fell into the line of people headed out the Mud Gate, doing his best to go unnoticed.

Ang was just underneath the wooden platform when he slipped. All the foot traffic had made the mud slicker than was normal, and in bare feet and baring the weight of another man it hadn't taken more than a slight misstep for Ang to fall.

"Get up and move," someone behind Ang yelled, kicking him in the ass. He grabbed Syrio and tried to stand, but failed. Another kick. He tried another time, same result. That time someone kicked Syrio. Ang had his cudgel in his hand in a flash, swirling around and smashing it against the offender's knee. The man shrieked as he fell. A woman screamed. Then Ang was being pelted with blows from all sides. He swung his cudgel at everything in reach. Wrists, knees, feet, balls. He caught a boot with his face and he fell, doing his best to cover Syrio from any blows.

"What in the seven fucking hells is going on," Ser Jacelyn shouted, Gold Cloaks pushing the crowd apart, giving Angstrom some rest.

"That cunt fell, wouldn't move," a man said pointing at Ang.

"Aye, then he started beating on us," said another.

"You, look at me," Ser Jacelyn said. Ang looked up, stared the knight in his steely eyes. He knew the Bywater recognized him, crouched there, cudgel in one hand, the other covering Syrio. "You look familiar," he said after a while.

"Do I ser," Ang replied.

"Aye. You look like a man I used to know. Was a good man, at least I thought so. Turned his back on his brothers. Sold out his friends." Ser Jacelyn had his good hand on his sword.

"Dunno him," Ang said. "Might be he's dead. I'm just a man trying to get my friend some help."

"Probably is dead," the knight said after a while. "Glad too. I don't want to see him again."

"I'm sure you won't." Ang steadied himself and rose, easy without so many people pressing down on him. He took Syrio in his arms like a mother would a babe and walked as fast as he could through the gate and down onto the docks. He looked around desperately trying to find a ship from Braavos. After what seemed like far too long Ang finally spied a purple hulled ship whose sail bore the image of the Titan of Braavos. Sprinting down the dock he was stopped short of the gangplank by two sailors, holding out their hands and shouting something in Braavosi.

"My friend, he's hurt," Ang said nodding down at the man in his arms. The two sailors looked at each other and shrugged. "He's Braavosi. He's going to die unless you get him help!"

"Valar morghulis," one of the sailors said.

"I don't know what that means!"

"It is meaning, all men must die," a man said from atop the gangplank. He was young with blue eyes and a broad nose, dressed in billowing silks the color of sea foam and starlight, with knee high leather boots and steel cuirass over his shirt. He wore a dagger on one hip and a long thin sword like Ang's on his other. Ang guessed he was the captain.

"That may be so," Ang said frantically, "but this man doesn't have to die today." The man walked gracefully down the gangplank and lifted Syrios shirt to inspect the wound.

"Just so," he said. "But I am doubting that. This wound is bad. Were I being you, I would be giving your friend the gift of mercy." The captain turned on his heel and went to walk back aboard his ship.

"This man is Syrio Forel," Ang shouted after him. "He is your countryman! He was the First Sword of Braavos who guarded your Seal Lord, you have to help him! Please!" When he said Syrio's name the sailors exchanged wide eyed glances and the captain stopped where he was. For a moment Ang didn't know what the captain meant to do. Finally he turned his head and gestured for Ang to follow.

He climbed the gangplank carefully, not wanting to tumble into the water. Sailors on board stopped to look at them as they passed or jumped out of the way of the fast moving captain. The man led him into a large cabin which no doubt belonged to him and pointed at a large feather bed with fine linens for Ang to set Syrio in. Setting him down gently, Ang turned to find the captain with dagger in hand.

"Whose sword is that being," he said nodding at Ang's blade.

"Mine," Ang said steel in his voice.

"Ha! Do you take me for a fool? I am knowing all about you Westerosi and how you fight. That is not a weapon you savages use, and it is being far too fine a blade for a shit covered peasant."

"I'm not a peasant. I was in the Watch. Syrio is a friend, he was teaching me the Water Dance. He designed the sword I have." The captain looked him up and down, searching for something to hint Ang was lying.

"How was this happening," he said pointing the dagger at Syrio.

"He was defending a child from a knight."

"Ah yes, your knights," the man spit. "Your knights talk often of defending the weak but I have yet to be seeing this. I will be fetching a healer. You will be staying here." The captain sheathed his dagger and turned to walk out.

"Wait! Who are you," Ang called after him.

"I have the honor of being Terro Nestoris, captain of this ship, the _Nighterngale's Song_."

"Why did you decide to help us?"

"Syrio is being a friend of my father, Tycho Nestoris. Please, wait here. I shall not be long." Nestoris left and Ang went and sat by Syrio's side. The wound was still slowly leaking blood. Syrio had gone quite pale and his breathing was slow and shallow. It was only then, when they were finally safe that the exhaustion set in. He couldn't remember when the last time he slept was and physical exertion of the last few hours were final setting. Ang leaned back against a wall and quickly slipped into a dream.

He was sitting in a clearing, snow falling heavily to the ground. He must have had his back against a tree because he could see white branches with red leaves extending out in front of him. _A weirwood_, he knew somehow.

"Cruck-cruck," Ang heard somewhere above him. He tried to look up but his head was fixed in place. Then he tried moving his arms and his legs but was like he was rooted to the ground.

"Cruck!" The three eyed raven flittered out to one of the branches he could see. It yelled at him once more before flying off. That's when Ang saw the men entering the clearing. There were four of them, hooded and cloaked and all in black. Three of them pulled back their hoods, hard looking men of middle age.

The one in front pointed to the man still hooded, he stepped towards Ang and knelt. Ang tried to call out a greeting but he couldn't find his voice. As the man pullback his hood Angstom got confused. He had brown hair and a beard, his left eye covered by a piece of black wool wrapped around his head. His face was plain and one Ang recognized. It was his. More than that Ang had the sudden realization that the man kneeling there was in fact him. _Not now, later,_ he knew.

"Cruck-cruck-cruck!" the raven called again.

Ang woke in near darkness, a single candle trying it's best to light the large cabin. The ship listed slightly side to side as the waves lapped against it. He could feel eyes on him.

"You were having bad dreams?" Syrio was laying on the bed propped up by thick pillows. In his left hand was a wineskin, in his right a sword.

"You're sword. How?"

"Terro fetched it for me," Syrio said pointing at the Braavosi in the chair opposite Ang. "I…I did not want to be dying without it." It was only then he noticed Syrio's condition. He was as pale as fresh snow, each new breath a struggle.

"But…the healer!"

"Has come," Terro Nestoris said softly, "and gone."

"There was nothing…to be done. Too much blood," Syrio managed to say.

"No. No. I didn't drag you all the way here for you to die. You're not going to die. You can't die!"

"Valar morghulis, Angstrom," the old Braavosi whispered.

"All men must die," Ang admitted dejectedly.

"Just so. But before I am going I must ask of you two things. The first will be hard, the second will be harder."

"What's the first thing?"

"First, I ask you for the gift of mercy."

"Syrio…" Ang said shaking his head.

"Syrio nothing! I will not..will not die at the hands of that white worm, bleeding…like a wounded animal. A man will send me to meet the One True God, and you are that man! You will...as payment…for your dancing lessons." Ang nodded, tears stinging his eyes.

"And the second?"

"I am not sure…I should not be asking it. It will end with your death."

"Valar morghulis," Ang said somberly.

"Aye," Syrio nodded, "but I have told Terro the sort of man you are. You could sail with him to Braavos, enter the service of my old friend Tycho. See the wonders of the East, raise a family, die many years from now surrounded by friends."

"Ask what you will of me Syrio."

"The girl…Arya. Find her Angstrom. Protect her. Be taking her home."

"For the good of the realm, I…" Syrio reached out and struck Ang in the face with the flat of his blade before he could finish.

"Fuck…your realm. It is filled with liars and murderers…craven and worms. You will do this because the girl is innocent. Because… it is right."

"I'll try," Ang said.

"You are doing or you are not doing. There is no try."

"I'll do it."

"Good…good," Syrio said taking a long pull from the wineskin. "Come then." Ang drew his sword and moved closer to Syrio, putting a hand under his head and leveling the blade at his heart. The Braavosi smiled, then winced as Ang pulled him in, embracing him like the friend he was.

"Sharp," the old man whispered in Ang's ear. He laid him back down, drawing out the blade as gently as he could. When Syrio's head hit the pillow he was dead. Ang sat there in silence, tears running down his face. Then an awful smell filled the air.

"If there was ever being proof that the gods hate us," Terro said from behind him, "it is that all men, even great men like Syrio Forel, are shitting themselves in the end.

"Yeah, they never tell you about that," Ang said wiping his eyes. "His body…will you take it back to Braavos."

"We could be doing this," the captain said putting a hand on his shoulder, "but it is a long journey. We would have to pack him in salt like he was fish to prevent the rot. This is not something you are wanting, yes?"

"No. But what will you do with him?"

"Tomorrow we will wrap him and his sword in purple silk. We will be sail out into the open water, then give him to the sea. She will be bearing him, body and soul, to Braavos, past the Titan and back to our great harbor."

"Just so," Ang said.

He thought then of the Drowned God of his father. The god who took the souls of all those who were dead and buried at sea and dragged them down to his watery halls to serve him forever. Ang felt sorry for him. With real steel in his hand there wouldn't be anything the drowned bastard could do to stop Syrio Forel from cutting his way out and going home.


End file.
